Binary
by Soignante
Summary: Complete: What better mask than the faceless world of the Internet? It's a mask that cannot be ripped away on impulse. This is a Modern EC fic involving Christine as a genius barista, Erik, and the 'net.
1. The anonymous medium

**The Anonymous Medium**

Christine logged on to her Trillian instant messenger with a grin of anticipation, fingers crossed in the hopes that he'd still be on. Several months ago, she'd joined a chatroom called Classically Fanatic; an online community for classical music enthusiasts. Most of the posts were insufferably intellectualized discussions of dead, white composers and flaming critiques of various symphonies and conductors. She could picture the grey-haired, goateed, Chablis-sipping participants behind the posts. They were lambasting Matt Haimovitz for adapting Hendrix and Led Zeppelin to the cello. She was in the process of logging out, never to return, when a post appeared under the handle _AngelofMusic_.

AngelofMusic: _You conceited, self-important nitwits! You speak of the music as though it were an_

_arithmetic problem with only one correct answer- yours. I'm left wondering if any _

_of you actually _hear_ the music, or if you're too busy waiting to complain about it to_

_actually notice the beauty of the art. _

Nearly every person in the chatroom had proceeded to flame the dissenter, except Christine. She'd been wondering exactly the same thing and admired his fearless defense of innovative musician. This chatroom was not the place for her, but she was intrigued by him. Even his handle attracted her: Angel of Music – it managed to be sweet and arrogant at the same time. She had sent him a single, simple private message,

minorchord: _I hear it. _

He had responded coolly.

AngelofMusic:_ Do you. That would make you one of the blessed few._

That evening, they exchanged play lists of favored artists and pieces. She was delighted to find that, though classical music was his favorite, his taste in music was incredibly eclectic. He sent her a list of songs and pieces ranging from arias from Aida to bootlegs of Radiohead. She responded by battering him with samples from Thelonius Monk all the way to Nick Drake's gentle ballads. They both preferred independently produced music, whatever the genre.

AngelofMusic: _Overproduction destroys the artistry…_

minorchord: _It's a sort of musical cheating, don't you think? They've replaced genius with _

_formula._

AngelofMusic: _Exactly. If it doesn't meet Clear Channel's money making standards, it's dead._

He was a singer, and claimed mastery over "anything with strings". She shyly revealed that she played cello and flute, but that her secret desire was to learn to sing.

AngelofMusic: _Why haven't you?_

minorchord: _Lessons are_ t_oo expensive_. _I'm a barista – it barely pays the light bill. What do you_

_do?_

AngelofMusic: _I'm an editor for _Music in Review_. I work entirely from home. _

minorchord: _That must be wonderful. I'd love to work in my pajamas. _

AngelofMusic: (lol)_ Yes. I'm very lucky. _

From music, their conversations quickly expanded to politics (they were both liberal) to religion (she was indifferently agnostic, he was strongly atheist) to books to every subject under the sun. Christine found herself confiding in this man her closely held hopes and dreams. Evening stretched into night before she ever glanced at the time. He was everything every other man she had ever known (including the one she had just dumped) was not: literate, articulate, witty with a deliciously dry sense of humor. Most importantly, he was entirely obsessed with music. He actually _knew _music.

After that first incredible night, they met regularly to chat. She'd always been a bit introverted, but he was able to draw her out easily. Amazingly, he never asked her age, or what she looked like; a refreshing change from the typical chatroom experience, which like as not started with, "a/s/l?"

It was not too many days after this first meeting that Christine asked Raoul, her current significant other, to meet her at the coffee shop near her house. She calmly told him that she simply didn't think it was "working out between them." She assured him that there was nothing wrong with him, that she just needed something different from a relationship. He left feeling confused and hurt; by all appearances, she had been perfectly happy with him. She watched him leave, feeling oddly free and only a little sad.

After a week of dragging into work more in need of the product than the customers, Christine was cornered in the kitchen by her coworker and best friend, Meg. The tall, wiry redheaded woman had backed her shorter, rounder friend against the metal sink.

"Ok, Miss Chris. Who is he, and where are you hiding him?"

Christine flushed with guilt. She had not called Meg in days; it was no wonder her friend suspected something.

"There's no man, Meg." She paused. That was not entirely true. "Well, _technically_ there's no man."

"You'd better ease off the cappuccinos there, girl. Either there _is _or there _isn't. _And I know you well enough, Christine Marie Daae, too see that there _is._" Meg crossed her arms, communicating clearly that she was going nowhere until she had an answer.

Of course Meg could tell. The two had been friends since girlhood – they'd been inseparable through better than twenty years worth of boys and broken hearts. Christine sighed and blew a few strands of escaping frizzy hair out of her face. "I'll tell you if you swear not to laugh or lecture."

Meg smirked. "When do I ever lecture?"

Christine held up both her hands, putting one finger down each time she listed a man's name. "After Dave, after Paul, after Greg – though I can't blame you about Greg – after Kevin, after DJ, the other Dave, after Sterling…and most recently, after Raoul."

"Ok! Ok!" Meg made a gesture of surrender. Christine really did have a terrible time with her choice of guys, but no amount of nagging ever seemed to improve her choices. Raoul had seemed like a wonderful guy. He was wealthy, fine as hell, and of course Christine had dumped him, claiming he bored her. "I won't lecture…yet."

"Well, there's this guy I met online…"

Meg's lips disappeared in a thin line as she bit at them in a desperate attempt to keep from delivering a stern lecture on the spot. Christine caught the expression and waggled a finger at her.

"You promised! He hasn't asked me for my name, or my phone number. He hasn't even asked me what I look like. He really doesn't trip off my creep-o-meter at all, Meg. But he knows _everything_ about music – and he can actually spell, unlike some other exes I could name. That's what I mean when I said that there's technically no guy. We just exchange music and chat, and that's it."

Satisfied that her friend wasn't about to elope to Guatamala with some creep, Meg moved out of her way. "Just be careful, will you? People you meet online are famous for not being what they seem."


	2. Wouldn't it be easier?

**Wouldn't It Be Easier?**

Now, months after that conversation, _AngelofMusic_ was every bit as interesting as he'd been in the beginning. Her excitement tonight was due to an offhand suggestion of Meg's. They'd been in the middle of a painfully slow midmorning lull when Meg had asked Christine how her cyber-romance was going. Christine had grinned and begun recounting the most recent conversation. It was something about Mendelsshon's use of harmonics, and Meg was lost in the first few seconds. _Oh, the duties of friendship, _she silently groaned.

"He says he's been reworking some of Mendelsshon's concertos for guitar. I'd love to hear them…"

"Why don't you just get a webcam and a microphone?" Meg interrupted, heading off on the pretense of wiping down the already-gleaming espresso machine. "That way, you could find out for sure whether this guy is all he says he is."

Christine simply stood there, flabbergasted. Why _didn't_ she just get a webcam and microphone? She had enough saved up for the equipment, and it would certainly be worth it to hear _AngelofMusic_'s music. On the way home from work, she stopped at the neighborhood Target and bought a low-quality webcam and a high-quality microphone. It took a matter of minutes to install the new equipment.

minorchord: _Hi there!_ _Edited any good articles lately?_

It was her standard log-on line.

AngelofMusic:_ No. How was your day, Little Latte?_

That was his.

minorchord:_ I realized something today. You realize that we two music-lovers have been _

_communicating in total silence?_

AngelofMusic: _ That's typically how it works…_

minorchord:_ Well, I dropped by Target today and picked up a webcam and microphone. If you do_

_the same, we can just log on and talk – no slow typing. _

Christine waited for a response. She was beginning to wonder if he had been disconnected somehow. Normally, he wrote back quickly; she guessed he must type more than eighty words-per-minute.

minorchord: _Not that your typing is particularly slow. And I could finally see the genius behind the_

_font. _:-)

Christine continued to wait. The lack of response began to feel awkwardly purposeful, as though she could feel his disapproval through the screen.

minorchord:_ I just thought it would be nice to exchange music that way. Maybe we could even _

_play music for each other. _

minorchord: _Angel? You there?_

After a few moments, she saw that he was typing again.

AngelofMusic:_ You already bought a webcam? And you want me to do the same. I thought_

_you'd be different from all the camwhores. I didn't think that kind of thing would_

_matter to you. I guess I was wrong._

minorchord: _ Geez…I thought it was a good idea. Sorry I ever said anything. I just thought it'd..._

**AngelofMusic has logged off.**

She was taken aback by the ferocity of his response and his sudden disappearance. Suspicion and curiosity rose in her mind. Why was this normally calm, intelligent man suddenly freaking out over the suggestion they use webcams? She looked at her new microphone and cam sitting, unused, on her computer desktop. She was telling the truth when she said being a barista did not pay well; this purchase represented several nights' tips that she could have used in more practical ways.

Christine's eyes wandered back to the chat window. The nice thing about instant messaging was that messages posted to a person who logged out would still be delivered. She would explain her motivations and then leave him alone. If he accepted her explanation and messaged her, wonderful. If not, she'd have to chalk this up to experience and move on.

minorchord: _I don't know what made you so angry. It's not like you have to buy a webcam if you _

_don't want to. I'd just like to hear you, and I'd like for you to hear me. That's what _

_you always say, isn't it? That the true art lies in live performance? And I don't see_

_ why you should get so upset that I ask to hear you, unless you lied to me. Unless you_

_can't really perform. But it's up to you. I'm still here. _

She pressed the ENTER button and watched her words appear in the window. She'd left the ball entirely in his court; it was up to him to respond and repair their friendship. She hoped he would do exactly that. He probably had had a bad experience with some woman in the past who had insisted on webcams. She was willing to chalk his strange behavior up to past relationship trauma; goodness knew she had enough of that herself.

Reluctantly, she turned off the monitor and stumbled down the hall to take her shower. It was a short hallway, which was fortunate because she suddenly was aware of exactly how much sleep she'd been missing. _If he never messages back, _she thought, _I'll at least start getting enough sleep again. _ As the hot water cascaded over her neck and shoulders, she realized that she had become very tense. An internet friendship wasn't worth this angst, was it? There was something about him, though; something that tugged at the back of her mind, making her want him to write back.


	3. A Little History

**A Little History**

With an angry flourish, Erik closed the chat window. After months of talking to the woman, he had truly come to believe that she was different, that she was more interested in music than appearances. Why did she have to prove herself just as shallow as the rest? It had been a perfect friendship; he had almost begun to feel safe.

With a sigh, Erik crossed the room and lifted his violin to his chin. The violin's finish was originally polished and bright, but he had scuffed and dulled it. He wanted nothing near him that would reflect his face. His face: the bane of his existence. At birth, there had only been some minor deformity in the frontal and maxillary sinus cavities that had caused him to have difficulty breathing. A perfectly well meaning surgeon had gone in to repair the problem.

Erik snorted. _That_ problem had been repaired, but his undereducated parents had not understood the post-operative instructions and their insufficient insurance sent them home with the delicate infant far too soon. A drug-resistant staph infection set in just days after the operation, destroying nearly all the flesh around his eyes and cheeks. It had demolished his nose. The doctors proclaimed it a miracle that the infection did not touch his eyes. Afterwards, his health had been so fragile that the plastic surgeons dared not attempt to repair the damage for over a year. Meanwhile, his distraught parents sued for medical malpractice and won. They loved their little son, and wanted the best for him. The settlement paid for decent insurance and the many surgeries to come.

When he was two, he'd gone into the operating theatre for his first restorative surgery. The newly grafted skin looked wonderful, but then his body rejected it. From that moment on, his childhood had been nothing but an agonizing series of operations, each meant to undo the damage from the last. The strain proved too much for his mother, who kissed him one day and never came back home. His father did the best he could to rear the boy, but there was only so much parenting that could be done with a child whose life revolved around the hospital and aftercare.

The one bright spot had been his lessons. By law, the local school systems had to send specialized teachers to keep him from falling behind in his education. These tutors soon found they had a genius to work with. By his twelfth birthday, they no longer tried to teach him from the curriculum. He named a subject, and they brought him books. The boy was beyond them. It was a relief to his teachers when he finally tried for, and received, his GED. The child was a genius, true, but he was as cold as ice and as distant as the sun.

Only one person saw the fiery passion Erik hid from everyone else. There was a man, Nadir Khan, who was willing to go to whatever hospital was working on him at the time and teach the child to play violin, cello, guitar – anything with strings. A friend of Nadir's gave the boy two voice lessons before admitting that he could not bear the sight of that ruined face. Two lessons were enough. Erik found that singing was a wonderful way to recondition the brutalized muscles and skin after a surgery. He sang and played through pain and loneliness. Music reached him when nothing else could.

Erik woke in a hospital bed on his sixteenth birthday to see a very nervous crowd of doctors and nurses accompanied by his father and Mr. Khan. A world-renowned surgeon had come to evaluate the effects the endless surgeries had had on the skin, bone and musculature. He'd made a decision that he passed down as a decree. Erik would never forget the simultaneous relief and despair that paralyzed him when the great doctor said,

"There will be no more surgeries. What can be done, has been done." The great doctor's eyes had softened with pity when they met Erik's cold, questioning stare. "I'm sorry Erik. There's nothing more we can do. Your body has rejected even the prostheses. You have to live with the face you have."

When Erik said nothing in return, the great doctor shook his head and left the room. One by one, all the doctors and nurses who had worked with him over the years apologized and left – some with tears in their eyes, some with sighs of relief. Finally, only his father and Mr. Khan remained. The latter was hiding something behind his back.

"Erik. I'm sorry..." his father began.

"No, Dad. It's fine. There's nothing they can do. I understand." Erik's voice was strained and quiet; his black eyes looked like dead coals.

"We...Nadir and I...we brought you something. It's your birthday, and we thought you should have something to make up for everything else..."

Mr. Khan stepped forward and whipped the black box out from behind his back. He was the only adult in the room able to summon a smile. The boy's face meant nothing to him – he recognized the blazing spirit behind the ravaged flesh.

"Open it, Erik! Hurry, or I'll take it back and open it myself."

His enthusiasm was infectious. Erik snatched the box and tore it open, revealing an ornate black leather violin case. With trembling hands, he flipped the sliver latches open and slowly raised the lid. When he saw what was inside, his jaw dropped and he lost his breath. It was the most magnificent instrument he had ever seen. This was no cheap, mass produced child's violin. It had obviously been custom made just for him. From the perfect scroll to the ebony points, it was a work of art. He turned the beautiful thing over in his hands, to see the maker's mark – it was a Leonhardt.

Reverently, he lifted the instrument and set it under his chin. There was hot pain when the chin-rest pushed the freshly cut skin of his face into little wrinkles under the fresh bandages; he ignored it. He set bow to string and played the Moonlight Sonata. The sound was deep, dark and full. He remembered both grown men turning away to study the walls, the curtains, anything to keep from showing the tears that coursed down their faces.

Now, the violin rested painlessly beneath his chin, and he slowly drew the well-rosined bow across the strings, smiling peacefully as the music flowed out to soothe him once again. The music calmed him and restored his rational thought. With annoyance, he realized he wished minorchord could hear this. She'd love the sound – he knew she would appreciate it, camwhore or not. Erik set the violin down on the rack he had made especially for it, and logged back in.


	4. Of Lattes and Loneliness

**Of Latte and Loneliness**

Meg watched Christine thrust the overfilled mug of hot chocolate at an annoyed customer.

"Miss, I said I wanted_ whipped cream_ on that."

Christine gave the woman a blank stare. Listlessly, she picked up the can of whipped cream, pressed the nozzle, and heaped the mug to overflowing with mounds of the fluffy white stuff.

"Cinnamon? Nutmeg?" she asked, brandishing the spice-shakers like weapons.

After the startled customer had backed away, Meg grabbed Christine by the upper arm and dragged her away for a 'kitchen chat'.

"You are going to get fired if you keep that up." Meg stepped back and critically examined her friend. "Is it possible that you got even _less _sleep last night? And you're about ready to put cyanide in the sugar shaker. What's wrong, Miss Chris?"

"Nothing, Meg. Really. It's stupid." She sighed. There was a customer at the counter. While Meg took the man's order, Christine tried to put her thoughts together. Her sleep had been thin and restless. She was in a dreadful mood; she'd even considered calling in sick to avoid having to deal with customers today. Meg came back, leaning against the wall expectantly.

"It's just that…" Christine chewed her lower lips a little bit. She was in for an 'I told you so' of gigantic proportions. "You know how you suggested I get a webcam and microphone?"

"Uh-huh…"

"Well, I did. But when I suggested it to the guy, he totally freaked out on me. He said he thought I wasn't like the other camwhores, and then he just logged out." Christine shrugged. "It shouldn't even matter. He's just a guy on the 'net, right?"

"Uh-huh…"

"But it's really bugging me. He seemed so _genuine!_" And…I miss talking to him. I've only missed one, single conversation with him, and just _look_ at me - I'm a mess. I guess I'm just lonely for masculine company." Christine pushed her hands into the pocket on her apron. "Go ahead, Meg. Say it."

"It's ok, sweetie. Just don't let Bess see you threatening the customers with the cinnamon. She'd have you out of here so fast your head would spin." Truthfully, Meg wanted to grab and shake her gullible friend. The girl lived in a fantasy world of music and fairy-tales. But Christine looked so bummed, she didn't have the heart to scold her.

"Thanks, Meg. Really. I swear that when I go home today I am not even turning the computer on. I am going to practice my flute until my lips cramp, and then I am going to sleep for a million years."

"Good girl. Now go churn out some high-quality Jamaican brew!"

Feeling somewhat cheered by Meg's unusual forbearance, Christine finished the day without anymore serious incidents. There was a used CD store on her walk home. To complete her personal feel-better routine, Christine stopped and browsed through some of the newer material. She was feeling dark and angry – but it had to be cello music. Half an hour later she left the shop with an Apocalyptica CD shoved deep into her oversized purse.

Once home, she locked the door behind her and picked up the flute. She spun it in her fingers like a baton before putting it to her lips. In her tiny apartment, the only place for her music rack was the living room, right next to the computer desk. Repeatedly, she started to play, trying to make Stravinsky's music flow appropriately smooth and sensual. Repeatedly, she trailed off, staring at her reflection in the black screen. The flute sparkled mockingly at her. Absently, she wondered what AngelofMusic thought of Stravinsky's _Nightingale._

_Fine_, she grumbled to herself. _I'll just log in for a moment. Just one minute – no more – and see if he has responded. _

Trillian was slow loading; Christine tapped her nails loudly on the particle board of her cheap computer desk. AngelofMusic was not signed in. _Damn! _Then she noticed that the **_Offline Messages_** window had popped up. Christine clicked on it eagerly.

AngelofMusic: _There is something I would like to share with you, Little Latte. I won't use a_

_webcam, but my microphone should arrive in two days. I assume you will be on_

_at your usual time. Oh, and please have something ready to "share", if that is_

truly_ your motivation. _

The message was curt, and his last line was nothing less than acerbic. There was no apology or explanation for his outlandish behavior the day before. She had to admit that her own message to him had been a bit challenging as well. He'd answered the challenge, and now she was ruefully considering her options. This would be the first time he heard her voice, her music. What would she say? What could she possibly play that would make a good impression _and _represent her as a whole person?

When they first met, he'd been defending Matt Haimovitz's work. She'd gone on to fall in love with the cellist's adaptation of _The Immigrant Song_. She practiced it endlessly, until she tore the calluses from her fingers and built new ones. That would be her performance piece. Several weeks had passed since last she played it; she would have to brush up on it quickly. Before there was time to think rationally about what she was doing, the phone was in her hands and she heard her voice pitch itself low and scratchy.

"Uh..cough, cough Bess? I feel awful. cough, cough I don't think I can make it in tomorrow…"


	5. Five Minutes

**Five Minutes**

Erik paced distractedly around his two-bedroom apartment. The microphone had been delivered that morning. The delivery required a signature. The deliveryman had gawked openly at Erik as he signed the receipt and yanked the package from the man's cigarette-stained hands. It was not every day that one delivered a package to a man wearing a leather mask covering the top two-thirds of his face. Longish, shaggy black hair hung forward in a thick fringe, further obscuring his features.

"Is that some kind of...kinky thing? My sister had a guy who was into that...kind...of" He stumbled over his words as long, thin, pale fingers grasped the collar of his tan workshirt. "Jesus, man. I ain't into that shit."

"Leave." The one word was spoken in a tone so deep and threatening that there was no question of the speaker's intent. Erik shoved the man backward into the hall of the apartment building and slammed the door. Ignorant Neanderthals like that were part of the reason he never left his apartment anymore. He wanted to punch him in his staring eyes until they swelled shut, but did not need another jail term for assault.

Erik opened the box and looked at the simple microphone set-up. According to his research, this microphone was the best available. For what he paid, it should have excellent sound reproduction. The advertising claimed it was able to filter extraneous noise. She would be able to hear the rich, dark tones of his precious violin. Someone who loved music, someone other than Nadir and his father, would finally hear him play.

_But there's something else you hope for, isn't there, Erik? _A quiet voice from the deep well of his subconscious rose to tease him. _There's more you want. _

He'd spent the last twenty-four hours alternately resting and practicing. There would be only one first chance to impress her, to make her hear him. He wanted each note to burn her with beauty; he wanted each word to sink into her mind indelibly. For years, he'd considered himself a thing apart from – and above - the rest of humanity. It was his way of protecting himself from the brutal rejection he experienced each time he dared venture out. This girl had almost convinced him that he might consider rejoining the species, at least enough to talk to her.

Unlike Christine, who was feeling more and more anxious as the appointed time approached, Erik felt only a growing sense of self-confidence. All these months, he'd paid very careful attention to Christine. He'd invited her to talk effusively, drawn her out with little comments and questions that revealed nothing of himself. He'd come to know her hopes and dreams, her triumphs and failures. He'd quietly sympathized with her when she dumped her boyfriend, though he was secretly glad; the less time she spent with that non-musical oaf, the more time she'd have for him – not that he was interested in her that way.

Of course he was not interested in her that way. It would be weakness on his part. But those conversations when he drew her out had showed him a wonderful, deep complex person; a person he respected. Now, as he installed the mic and checked its function, he thought back on a snippet of those conversations when her emotions had been running high.

AngelofMusic: _Cello and flute. Very different instruments. How did you come to choose them?_

minorchord_: Dark and light, dangerous and romantic, strings and wind, yang and yin. Not to get_

_too deep into it, but I like to be able to touch both sides. _

AngelofMusic: _I know what you mean. No instrument is limited to one dimension, but some_

_definitely appeal to some emotions better than others._

minorchord:_ Yeah. The cello has something dangerous about it, you know? It's got power. But_

_it can still have a gentle wistful sound. And the flute seems all sweetness and light,_

_but if you play it right, it can haunt the listener for days._

He had chosen his piece based on that conversation. Haunting and sweet, powerful and light. Ralph Vaughan Williams' "The Lark Ascending" was all that, and achingly beautiful as well. That piece of music and his voice were the tools he would use to draw her in. He would wrap her in sound so that she would forget about sight. _What if she still wants to see me? _The thought was unnerving. _What if hearing me makes her want it even more? _Now, there was nervousness under his confidence. She must never see him.

He logged in at a quarter until four to find that she was not online yet. Excellent. This gave him a moment to prepare. His violin lay in his lap as he rosined the bow. He knew it was in tune. He knew the sound would be perfect. The clock refused to allow time to move forward. Ten 'til four. Eight 'til four. Three minutes 'til four.

Three minutes _after _four. Where was she? He tapped his foot impatiently and hummed a few scales. Ten minutes after four. He'd begun to think she was not going to appear. _It's not as important to her as it is to you, stupid. She has friends, a job, a _life. He decided that he would give her five more minutes. Five more minutes, and then he'd give up on her. As cold as he tried to be, as much as he wanted to believe that he could do without other people, Erik desperately hoped she would not disappoint him.


	6. Delicious Irony

**Delicious Irony**

Christine was late because she was terrified. He didn't intend to use a webcam, but since she had one, she did. She'd spent an hour in front of the mirror, trying to decide how she should look. AngelofMusic did not strike her as the sort of man who cared much for make-up or fancy clothes, but she still worried about her frizzy hair, her freckles, and the few extra pounds on her hips, waist and chest. What if he thought she was ugly? She'd beaten her hair into submission with anti-frizz glosser and a round hairbrush. She'd spread a little powder over her face to camouflage the freckles. There was nothing to hide the fact that she was a little plump. What if he thought she was fat?

The cello was next to her on its stand and the music was in her head – she needed no sheet music for this piece. The microphone was set at the perfect angle to pick up her voice; she would have to readjust it before she began to play. The camera was attached to the computer monitor. She stared at it with trepidation. _What if he thinks I'm ugly? _The nasty little thought would not leave her. She was not worried he would not like her performance; she was fire on the cello, and she knew it. She was only afraid that he would take one look at her and lose interest. _The webcam was _my_ idea. What a stupid idea! "_Stupid, stupid!" she chided herself.

Her computer proclaimed the time to be twelve past four. AngelofMusic normally logged on at four. He would have been expecting her since then. Summoning her courage, Christine leaned forward and signed in. She turned on the camera and stared into its dark eye. Until he opened the window for a webcam session, he would not see her. She made horrible faces at it, just to relieve some tension.

AngelofMusic: _I was beginning to think you weren't coming._

minorchord: _I almost didn't, to be honest. _

AngelofMusic: _You are angry with me?_

minorchord:_ No. That's not it._

AngelofMusic:_ What is "it" then?_

Christine sighed. She'd never felt the need to lie to him before. For months she'd told him everything she thought or felt without reservation. Now, though, it was _about_ him and that made it different. "Why break a good habit?" she muttered.

AngelofMusic: _Are you still there?_

minorchord:_ It's that I am a little nervous. _

AngelofMusic:_ Why would you be nervous? This was your idea._

minorchord:_ I know, I know. No need to rub it in. Look, it's really silly. Let's turn on _Voicechat

_and get going. I've got my cello here, all tuned and ready._

AngelofMusic:_ Not so fast, Little Latte. I want to know – why are you nervous?_

minorchord:_ I've got the webcam on, because I said I would.. If you click to open the webcam_

_session window, you'll see me. I'm nervous because, well, what if you don't like _

_how I look? I'm not pretty. _

It was Christine's turn to wait for a response. Erik was dumbfounded. _She_ was worried about what he would think of _her_ appearance? He found himself laughing; an action so rare he startled himself. The irony was delicious. He clicked on the window to open the webcam session. She was sitting, staring at her screen, her anxiety evident in her face. She looked to be about twenty-five, a decade younger than he was, or more. He found her round face, sharp green eyes, and full red lips adorable. minorchord was right: she wasn't pretty by modern standards, though she was far from unattractive. Erik's normally flat, cold expression softened.

minorchord:_ Look. If my looks are going to be an issue, then we may as well not even do this. _

AngelofMusic:_ I've turned on the webcam._ _I can see you, though the resolution leaves something_

_to be desired_. _Your looks are not going to be an issue, I promise. Now, I agree _

_with you. "Let's turn on _Voicechat _and get going. I've got my violin here, all tuned_

_and ready."_

Christine took a deep breath and opened Voicechat. How should she interpret his message? He was looking at her, he knew she was nervous about his opinion of her, and yet he'd offered no clue as to what that opinion was. Normally, she hated placating answers like, "Of _course_ you're pretty, every woman is beautiful!" or the eternally-despised, "Men like a little something to hold on to." But this total neutrality, this lack of response was far worse. She was beginning to sweat over it, when his voice came through her speakers and shook her world.

"Can you hear me?" was all he had said, but the words raised goosebumps on her skin. His voice was deep, rich, full, powerful, masculine, smooth…the adjectives kept flowing through her mind.

"Yuh…yes." she stopped, cleared her throat, steadied the palsy of her nerves, and tried again. "Yes. You are coming through loud and clear. Can you hear me?"

Erik smiled. She sounded exactly as he imagined. Her voice was clear and sweet. He had not missed the false start or its implications. On the camera, her face was a blank O of wonder. .He had developed his voice over years and years of experimentation; he knew the effect it would have on a sensitive listener.

"I can hear you as well. Wonderful. Now, I suppose we should introduce ourselves properly. I am Erik." he smiled to himself, taking delight in her expression as she tried to pull her thoughts together enough to answer.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Erik." Christine smiled into the camera. His voice was relaxing her, easing the tension of the last week. "I am Christine."

There was a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable. Erik could see the scroll and fingerboard of her cello. "Well, Mademoiselle Christine, what will we be hearing from you today?"

"Wait, wait! Who said I was going first?"

Erik laughed for a record breaking second time. The sound carried clearly and Christine felt her heart melt. She tried to keep her face from showing how something as simple as his laugh affected her and failed miserably as red tinged her cheeks.

"Go ahead, Little Latte. Play for me before you blush any brighter."

Her blush deepened to crimson. She didn't trust her voice at all, so she simply slid her chair back and pulled her cello to rest against her thigh. Her nervousness and embarrassment floated away into the music, as did her awareness that he was listening, or that there was an outside world at all. There was passion in this piece and she played with controlled ferocity. Her hair defied her attempts at control and fell over her eyes. She broke a sweat on her brow. The bow flew over the strings faultlessly.

Erik leaned towards his screen and touched the blurry image of her face. He recognized the look in her eyes: it was the same he would wear in his own minutes from now. She was gone into the music. No, Christine wasn't pretty. He stared at the passionate expression that even the pathetic resolution of her webcam could not obscure. She wasn't pretty, but while she played her music, she was beautiful.


	7. Talk to Me

**Answers to some of my reviewers – and thank you all VERY much for the reviews. **

"**Mic" is indeed short for microphone.**

**Yes, Little Latte is a pun on Little Lotte, since Christine works in a coffee house. I'm not just misspelling it. **

**Yes. Erik has been in jail. More on that later. **

**Talk to Me**

Christine finished playing and sat limply for a moment, catching her breath. When she raised her head, the sound of applause flooded out of her speakers. She'd played with passion, without mistakes. She'd impressed herself with her own performance. Apparently, she'd impressed him, too.

"Brava! Well-played. Haimovitz would be proud. If only I know the supporting pieces! You said you could play, but that was more than I expected."

She could hear the sound of a bow lightly testing violin strings. He continued speaking, "Your performance was extraordinary. Let's see if I can avoid embarrassing myself entirely. I don't know if you've heard this piece. It's called "The Lark Ascending" by..."

Christine interrupted him and gushed. "Williams! Oh, I love that piece. It's one of my all-time favorites!"

There was a pause as Erik adjusted to the concept of being interrupted – and not minding. He settled his chin into the chin rest and began playing. At first, he thought he'd watch and see her reaction to his performance, but the music took him too quickly. His eyes drifted shut as the music took him out of himself and gave him wings.

Christine had a hard time believing it was Erik playing on the other side of the connection. If she had not known the piece well enough to recognize Erik's unique interpretation of it, she would have suspected that he was simply playing a recording. As it was, she began to suspect something very different. When he stopped playing, she raised her hands to clap, but found herself wiping away tears, instead. "Oh Erik," she breathed, "did you say you were an _editor? _ Are you sure that's all you are?_"_

Silence greeted this remark. He didn't understand the statement – he barely heard it. All he could see was the small, sweet smile and the glistening tracks of tears on her face. He had done that. Ugly, reclusive, abrasive Erik had brought those tears forth with his music. She was speaking again.

"Erik? Why aren't you a performer? Why aren't you in some symphonic orchestra, or taking center stage in Carnegie Hall?"

He almost made a biting retort, but then he realized that she was entirely sincere. She didn't know what he was. He had made very sure that she should not know. He pondered over his reply for a moment.

"I will never perform onstage." It was an insufficient answer, he knew. She wouldn't accept it. He winced, realizing that a gate had been opened and it was too late to close it.

"But that's ridiculous, Erik! You...you're a genius! They'd love you! I can't believe you're not a performer."

"Believe it, Christine. Let's not talk about this. Please." his voice had grown quiet. Christine couldn't decide if it was pain or fury she was hearing.

"Why not? I tell you everything. Now that I think of it, I don't think you've told me a single damned thing. This is obviously something that's important to you. Why won't you talk to me about it?" She knew she was pressuring him dangerously, but didn't seem to be able to stop herself.

For his part, Erik was warring with fury and sorrow. How dare she push him so? Why did she care? He felt as though he were strangling. "...i_mportant to you"_, she'd said. But she didn't know the half of it. Erik would have given anything to perform, to share his music with the world. He felt as though he were strangling. He wanted to scream at her and tell her _exactly _why he wasn't a performer, but that would frighten her away. That would make her hate him and that would be...well, that would be dreadful.

"Erik?" Her voice was cautious and soft. "Please talk to me."

"I'll say this one thing, and then I won't talk about it anymore, so please don't try." She could hear him draw a deep breath before continuing. "Why won't I use a webcam? Think about it, Christine. Draw your own conclusions."

((this chapter TBC))


	8. Talk to Me cont'd

**Talk to Me (cont'd)**

That told her nothing. She'd already asked herself that question repeatedly. _She_ did not have the answer. Obviously, he was trying to tell her that there was something wrong with his appearance, but everyone had issues with how they look. She'd almost not met him tonight for that same reason.

"I'm not trying to make you talk about it anymore, and I know you are probably thinking I'm awfully pushy, but if you're overweight or think you aren't attractive or something - you should know that with the way you play, it probably wouldn't matter. I mean, look at John Popper"

"Christine…" His voice was tight as he tried to remind himself that she had the best of intentions. Still, her name slid hissingly from his lips in a low, warning tone.

"Seriously, Erik. It's not like you're a circus freak or something."

_The hell, you say,_ he thought acidly . Had this been anyone else, he would have turned off Voicechat and disappeared from her forever. But this girl had gotten into his soul somehow, with her trust and her passion and her talent. This was so new, so annoyingly difficult. For the first time in his life, he was trying to keep a friend. How did one go about that?

"Christine?" He'd remembered something from their first conversation. "Would you like to learn to sing?"

The obvious attempt at redirection was frustrating, but she let herself be led away from the subject. He wouldn't talk now, but someday... "I already told you I can't afford lessons."

"I wouldn't charge you. I'd give you lessons for free." It was working! She was distracted.

"But…how can you give me lessons over a microphone?"

"I'm sure we'll work it out. Let's try it and see how it works. Now, stand up, so I can see you better. You shouldn't have much problem with the breathing, because you play the flute. If you play the flute as well as you play the cello –and, honestly, of the two of us, _you_ should be the performer – you already know how to breathe and how to control your breath. Sing for me. Anything you like."

Christine stood, trying to think of a song she knew well enough to sing off-the-cuff without lyrics or sheet music. "Really, you should sing first. Erik, I can't sing at all. I really…"

"Hush. Let me be the judge. Sing."

Not normally one to take orders, Christine bristled. Erik could see the crease in her brow and the angry frown that crossed her face. It made him smile. It showed him that she was not naturally pliant, but he could see in her eyes that she would do this because it was AngelofMusic who asked.

Christine began to sing Nick Drake's "Cello Song". It was a beautiful little ballad that did not require a broad range or exceptional vocal skill. It was also one of her favorite songs, which helped her to sing it believably. She couldn't have known the effect it would have on her lonely listener.

The girl's voice was entirely untaught and raw. She knew how to breathe, but she wouldn't open her mouth to let the voice out. She seemed afraid to produce sound. What little sound she did produce, however, showed immense potential. Her voice had a sweetness and tone that many an opera singer would envy. It needed work, true, but with a very little effort he could release an Angel's voice.

"_Strange face, with your eyes / So pale and sincere. / Underneath you know well / You have nothing to fear. / For the dreams that came to you when so young / Told of a life / Where spring is sprung_."

Through the first stanza, he could focus on the technicalities and critique her weak spots. As the song progressed, though, he began to actually hear the lyrics. Erik knew this song – how could one love stringed instruments and not know Nick Drake – but to have her choose it, and sing it directly to him…

"_You would seem so frail / In the cold of the night / When the armies of emotion / Go out to fight.  
But while the earth sinks to its grave / You sail to the sky / On the crest of a wave."_

The few girls Erik had tried to know between his years in the hospital and the moment when he decided to isolate himself from the world had either been afraid or openly contemptuous of him. He'd grown cold, encasing his romantic hopes in layer after layer of ice. This unpretentious ballad, sung in her modest, whispery voice as she gazed into the camera lens, was melting that ice faster than he could absorb the melt.

"_So forget this cruel world / Where I belong / I'll just sit and wait / And sing my song. / And if one day you should see me in the crowd / Lend a hand and lift me / To your place in a cloud_."

She finished the song, and there was silence.

and silence.

and more silence.

"Was that ok? Do you still think I can learn to sing?" As it always did, his silence made her nervous. She decided that she'd wait it out this time. After a few minutes, her patience was rewarded.

"It was fine. You…need to open your mouth more. There are issues… with enunciation…and other technical things…" She almost asked if he was ok. He suddenly sounded old and tired; it seemed he was trying to catch his breath. "but you have a beautiful singing voice Christine. If only you weren't afraid to make the sound."

"But…" she began to protest, he interrupted.

"I have to go now. I have deadlines to meet. Will you be on tomorrow?"

"Yes, but…"

"I'll talk to you then."

Click.

**AngelofMusic has logged off.**


	9. It's Like in Spring

**It's Like in Spring...**

Erik stared warily at the blank monitor. What had just happened? He'd gone into the Voicechat session comfortably sure that he could impress her with his voice and his skill – and he had. She'd been amazed. But control had escaped him just when it seemed she was totally under his sway. She had been saying the same things that he'd told himself in the greenness of his youth: he should be performing, he would be great, his face wouldn't matter if he played well enough. She was so convinced that she was _convincing, _even though he knew the truth from brutal experience. He had almost told her his secret; what a mistake _that_ would have been. As it was, he had given her too much. "_Draw your own conclusions,_" he'd said, and she would do that, he was sure. Then he had asked her – no, commanded her - to sing, and that was the right thing to do, because it had distracted her from the immediacy of her curiosity.

That's where things had truly begun to go wrong. In her breathy, untaught voice, she had sung to him sincerely. The lyrics had been more than simple words coming from her. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were a message, that she somehow _knew_ him despite his best efforts to keep her in the dark. He'd been reduced easily to the verge of weeping; like the doctor in W. C. Williams' "Paterson", he'd been 'shaken by her beauty, shaken.' She wasn't even pretty. _Neither am I, _he though, grinning wryly. _Next to me, she's Aphrodite. No, not Aphrodite...she's Artemis: her weapons are youth, innocence and passion. And when she plays...when she sings... _He had logged off in self-defense, but promised to meet her the very next day.

A new idea struck Erik then. _What if she's right? Not in the broader sense, but in a very personal sense? What if...what if I can play well enough that she won't mind that I'm ugly? _As soon as he thought it, he knew it was too much to ask and dismissed the posibility harshly. But his lonely part of his mind wouldn't let go. _What if she doesn't mind about the mask? That's possible, isn't it? _His mind gave no answer. He spoke softly into the darkness of his apartment. "Isn't it?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christine affectionately stroked the fingerboard of her cello before picking up her flute. She found that she could focus now, and practice as she needed to. As she played, she concentrated on her breathing. Breathing was key to singing, she'd known that even before he had told her. AngelofM... _Erik_ was going to teach her to sing. That thought excited her tremendously.

She knew he would be an exacting teacher; he was obviously a perfectionist. That was no drawback in her eyes. A teacher had to be demanding if a student was to progress. Christine's excitement was born of an aspiration beyond her lifelong desire to learn to sing. She realized now that all these months, her heart had been there for him to view in bold black and white. She'd given it willingly and guilelessly because he was such a good listener. But _he_ remained a mystery.

Christine was not deaf to the few emotional clues Erik let slip. She'd heard the tremor in his voice when he told her to draw her own conclusions. She'd heard the effect her simple song had had on him. The young barista had decided to befriend her reticent internet acquaintance and thereby learn his secrets. It would be a challenge; she'd have to walk a delicate line to keep him talking to her, to make him trust her. She planned to draw him in as he had drawn her out.

"And Meg, I know music. Anywhere he chose to audition, he'd take first chair without practicing." Christine was talking animatedly, waving her hands in the air and nearly bouncing in her seat. They were eating a quick lunch at the little Italian bistro across from the coffee shop.

Always the levelheaded one, Meg quirked an eyebrow. "If he's so great, why _isn't _he a performer? I mean, talent like that usually doesn't go unnoticed. Unless it sticks its head in the sand and hides." She paused to throw a sharp look at her friend who was suddenly staring at her salad, pushing a cherry tomato around the plate. "Oh no. I bet he's _just like_ you."

"What do you mean, '...just like me'?"

Meg's face softened in a sympathy that was almost maternal. Christine was a genius. She could make the cello sit up and wag its tail. She could play the birds down from the trees on her flute. But since her humiliation during her last year at the Lawrence Conservatory, she would only play for close friends and family. "How many times has that annoying little man from the Conservatory called and begged you to come back and finish your work there? How many times have they apologized to you – literally groveled – for what happened? Does the Dean of Students still call every Thursday at 3:30?"

Christine riled. "Meg, that's really not necessary."

"Have it your way, Christine. But the most amazing cellist within a two-thousand mile radius is eating two-dollar salads and serving mochaccinos for fife-fifty an hour plus tips while she _should_ be off wowing audiences and making a name for herself."

Christine put down her fork hard enough to shake the little metal table and slosh water over the lip of her glass. Quickly regaining control, she picked up the recalcitrant cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth. "But we're not talking about _me_, Meg. We're talking about _him._ He's so mysterious. I can just _tell _he has some deep, dark secret..."

"Like raping little girls he meets on the 'net?" interjected Meg.

"No! Like a lost love. You should have heard his voice after I sang for him."

"He got you to sing for him? Out loud?"

"That's typically how singing works, Meg." Christine's expression went from wry to shy in a split second as she admitted the truth. "It wasn't hard for him to 'get me' to sing. You see, I'm starting to...you know... It's like in Spring, when you first feel a warm breeze instead of a cold one. Or, it's like that first bite of Godiva when you've got a craving. It's like..."

"You've got a crush."

"Exactly."


	10. Stealthily, or not

**Stealthily – Or Not**

Meg tried not to show her concern, but it leaked out around the edges of her smile. Christine had made bad choices in the guy-department before, but at least she'd always fallen for flesh-and-blood men. There was something distinctly creepy about internet romances. You never heard about happy endings on the news, but you heard plenty about women and children who were stalked, raped and even killed by men who hid behind the anonymity of their computer screens.

"Well, you know the rule. If you are going to be infatuated with this guy, I have to meet him." It was a rule Meg had made after Sterling – an honorable man who had shown his love for Christine by driving up her cell phone bill calling all his friends to announce that he'd "done it" with her, which he hadn't. The only boy friend Christine had had since then, Raoul, had passed Meg's scrutiny. And he really was a sweet, gentlemanly guy – he just wasn't her type.

"Uh-uh, Meg. No way." Christine could only imagine Erik's response to Meg's aggressive directness.

"You swore it to me! Remember? You put your left hand on the cappuccino maker and swore to me that I could screen all of your potential future significant others." This was a serious issue, something sworn on the cappuccino maker was sacred; it was widely believed that if you broke an oath sworn this way, the machine would break down and the oath-breaker would be swarmed by caffeine addicts in withdrawal.

"He'd take offense to it, Meg. I've known some people with pride issues – they pale in comparison to this guy. I think he'd be really angry if I brought someone in to judge him like that."

"He'd never have to know. I'd stay off camera and just listen." Meg turned on her shiniest best-friend smile and leaned in close. "C'mon Miss Chris; it's for your own good. When do you two meet next? I'll bring popcorn and chick-flicks for afterwards!"

Meg was irresistible when she turned on her charms. For twenty years she'd been as loyal and true a friend as anyone could hope for. To deny her the right to 'screen' Erik would be to break a serious promise and to allow an element of distrust between them. Christine but her lip, sighed, and caved in. "Today at four o'clock. But please, Meg, promise me you'll stay off camera and not move. The microphone I bought has nearly perfect reproduction."

"Of course, Miss Chris. Whatever you say, Miss Chris!" Meg saluted her with that same shiny smile plastered over her face. Christine rolled her eyes and looked at her watch.

"We better get back. I don't need to be late so soon after calling out sick." Meg nodded and stood, still smiling. For Christine's sake, she hoped the guy wasn't too creepy. If he were, she would do her duty as best friend by telling Christine so.

After their shift, Christine and Meg walked home together. Christine was silent all the way. She had terrible butterflies banging around in her stomach. It was too easy to imagine tonight going wrong. Erik might hear Meg in the background and become angry. He might disappear again, this time for good. Or, Meg might not like Erik, and then Christine would have to find some way to dodge her best friend's disapproval.

As she unlocked the door to her tiny apartment, Christine turned to Meg with large, solemn eyes. "Ok. The camera points this way, and if you sit over there, you'll be too close to the mic. Try sitting over here."

"Christine. Calm down. I'm not going to give your terrible secret away to your internet hottie. I promised, didn't I?" Meg was irritated because Christine's nervousness was beginning to wear off on her.

Christine went on as though Meg had never spoken. "You might want to get some water, and a pillow...and here's a blanket. Get comfortable now. Man, oh man, this is not a good idea..."

Meg settled into her corner and watched Christine bustle around the room, getting her cello set up, her bow rosined, the microphone and camera set at good angles, and generally acting like the metaphorical long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. _She really _does_ have a crush._ Meg thought. _I hope he's worth all the angst."_

"Ok. Stretch and do whatever you have to do now. I log on in a few seconds."

To try to sap some of the tension from the room, Meg lowered her voice and spoke through her hand to imitate a bad CB connection. "Ch-ch. Houston? We have log on in three...two...wuh..."

"SHHHH!" Christine clicked to log in. It was entirely irrational, but she really felt as though she were betraying Erik. _Which is ridiculous. Girl, get a hold of yourself! You never promised him total privacy. _There he was, waiting for her.

minorchord: _Hi there!_ _Edited any good articles lately?_

AngelofMusic:_ No. How was your day, Little Latte?_

minorchord:_ Truthfully?_

AngelofMusic:_ Of course. _

minorchord:_ It was a very uncoordinated day. I couldn't stop thinking about you and how you_

_played. It made me mess up a lot of orders. :-) _

AngelofMusic: _Really. I've been thinking a lot about how I can teach you over the_

_microphone, and honestly, I don't think it'll be too difficult. You've got natural_

_talent._

minorchord:_ When do we start?_

AngelofMusic: _As soon as you like._

Erik smiled at her eagerness to begin. He opened the webcam session and Voicechat, steeling himself to see and hear her again. Her image had been behind his eyelids and her voice had haunted his ears the entire night before. Whether this was a pleasant or unpleasant thing, he was as yet undecided.

"Well, then. Let us begin. Go ahead and stand up straight and relaxed. I'm going to teach you a few warm-up exercises, and then we can try... What _are_ you looking at?"

When Erik began speaking, Christine could not restrain herself from looking to see Meg's reaction. Meg was sitting in her corner, open-mouthed. Christine wanted to laugh, point and yell, "I told you so", but that would give her away entirely, if Erik hadn't figured it out already.

"There's a fly on the wall," She lied, thinking that it was actually pretty close to the truth. "It keeps buzzing around; it's very distracting." The spell of Erik's voice was broken a bit; Meg stuck out her tongue.

Erik raised an eyebrow. Christine didn't seem to be the type to be so easily distracted. His suspicions raised, he watched her closely. "Focus. Let's start with lip trills."

For the next hour, Erik walked Christine through voice warm-ups. As she grew more comfortable in front of her audience of two, Christine's voice improved dramatically. Erik had been correct when he said that her biggest hurdle was simply a fear of making sound. Once he convinced her to open her mouth, the whispery quality disappeared and very pretty soprano voice emerged. When her voice began to tire, Erik ended the lesson, half-relieved that she hadn't actually gotten to sing. He knew which song she'd want to learn first and he simply wasn't up to it.

"Why did my voice give out so quickly? I can talk for hours! You should ask my friends." Christine mentioned her friends more to gauge his reaction than anything else.

"I doubt I'll ever meet your friends." There was no humor in his voice. "Your voice gave out because the muscles you use to sing aren't developed – that what the vocal chords are. Rest your voice today. Practice everyday. Soon your voice will last nearly as long as you want it to – if you don't abuse it."

"Why?" Christine asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you doubt you'll ever meet my friends? I could bring Meg over here one day and you guys could talk." Christine wished she could see his face.

"I would very much prefer that you not do that, Christine. I don't...get on with people very well."

"You do just fine with me..." She smiled as she asked. Finally, he was talking to her.

"You're different."

"Be a little less specific, please. I might understand you, otherwise." Her sarcasm was gentle, not meant to bite, but to encourage.

"What do you want me to tell you?" Erik truly didn't know. He was miserably unsocialized. This business of chatting candidly with a woman was difficult at best. It would have been a relief to log off, but every soft word she spoke and every little change of her expression made him need to stay. It horrified him, but he realized he was becoming fond of her.

"I want you to tell me _any_thing. Why am I different? Different from who?"

He sighed heavily and when he spoke, his voice dripped with forced patience. "How are you different? You know music. You're a genius on that cello, and I think you will shape up to be a fine singer. I respect such musical skill. We've been talking for, what, four or five months now? You continue to be interesting long after most other people would have begun to bore me. I enjoy talking to you, Christine. Different from whom? From everyone else I've ever met. Anything else you are burning to know?"

"Sure, but remember that _you_ asked _me_. Do you like Quasi? How about Lesley Garrett? Where do you live? Why don't you perform? What's your last name? What conclusion do you expect me to draw from the fact that you won't use a webcam?" All of this was delivered rapid-fire, giving him no chance to interject anything. Christine took a deep breath – in for a penny, in for a pound, her father always said. Meg's presence gave her courage. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Erik stared at the screen. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was at a complete loss for words. She was looking away from the camera, blushing furiously, chewing her lip in a way that made him sweat. Something important had just happened. Could it be that she had grown fond of him as well? But, all those questions! How could he even begin to answer?

"I think Quasi has matured quite a bit over the years. They have a truly unique sound," Erik said, deadpan, and then fell silent.


	11. Scheherazade

**Scheherazade**

Erik silently congratulated himself on keeping his cool. When he spoke, Christine looked up with a startled smile. She'd clearly been expecting a different reaction – anger perhaps. Normally, that would have been an accurate expectation. Erik did feel a little perturbed, but his anger was cooled by her abashed expression.

"What about all the rest?" It felt as though a stranger had taken over her mouth and was asking these things.

Erik paused before answering. His mind, like his apartment door, had been closed to outsiders for years. There Christine sat, knocking, and he did want to let her in – only the place was a mess. She had asked seven questions. That gave him an idea. He could buy time and let her know a few important things before he answered that last question. Erik dared to hope he knew why she'd asked it, but by the time he'd answered the rest, she might not be interested in the answer to the last.

"For months you are content to know nothing, and now you've suddenly decided to become Pandora. Why have you decided to open the box now?"

"Pandora's box was full of nothing but trouble. You seem to forget that I heard you play last night. There's got to be more to you than trouble…" Christine was struggling not to look over to Meg. She was cursing her tongue for beginning this conversation. Meg comes over to 'screen' the guy and he starts comparing himself to Pandora's box. Wonderful.

"You think so. We'll see. I've answered one question, and that's all I'm going to answer today." His tone was teasing; Christine and Meg could hear a little smile in his voice. "Maybe tomorrow I'll answer another. You asked seven questions. How about this: I will answer one of these questions per day after your voice lesson, if you do well? It'll give you something to work for, you curious, prying thing."

"Or you could just answer now and stop teasing me!" The reproach in Christine's voice was mostly put-on.

"No. My mind is made up. Good evening …"

"Wait! Don't go yet. I want to ask one more thing." Christine originally planned to ask this the moment they logged on, but had forgotten.

"You want to add another day?"

"No. This is a request…I've sung for you, and I can't even sing. Will you sing something for me?"

This was a safe request. Erik was confident in his voice; it would be good to leave her with a song. But what? Her choice of songs the night before had been entirely innocent. He was too aware to choose so casually.

"What would you like to hear?" He hoped she'd make the difficult choice for him.

"Hmmmm…" Christine looked up to the ceiling, thinking of all the possibilities. "I don't know. How about something by Simon and Garfunkel?"

"Alright. Since you made such a good choice, I'll give you two. But please wait while I go get my guitar. Folk music just isn't right without an acoustic guitar accompaniment."

They heard him get up and walk away from the computer. Christine noted the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor. A door opened, and there was silence. Moments later, the firm footsteps returned, and she could hear him sit down and strum the strings. He took a moment to tune the guitar to the right key, cleared his throat and began. He started with "A Most Peculiar Man", and headed straight into "Sound of Silence" without bothering to pause and adjust his tunings.

If his performance the day before had moved Christine, his singing this day left her stunned and silent. She and Meg sat perfectly still, staring at the speakers, not believing what they had just heard. Erik smiled a soft smile and touched Christine's face on his computer screen. He imagined that this was how she must look when she was deep in a sweet daydream. He decided to leave her like that, to leave the spell intact. He turned off Voicechat and logged off, still smiling. If she was still speaking to him after he answered all her questions, he would setup a web camera of his own. If she proved herself trustworthy, he would let her see him.

Christine and Meg sat stock still for several minutes after Trillian announced that he was gone. In the same voice she might have used in a church or a graveyard, Meg whispered, "My God, Chrissie. Who _is_ he?"

Christine could only shake her head slowly. In the same reverent tones, she replied, "He is Erik." Moving as in a dream, she logged out and turned to Meg, who muttered, "I'll never listen to Simon and Garfunkel the same way again." Christine continued to shake her head slowly, the motion almost undetectable.

She stood up and helped Meg to her feet. Under the spell of Erik's voice, Meg had not noticed her right leg falling completely numb. She limped around, wincing and slapping at her leg. The sight brought Christine back to her senses.

"I think you forgot the popcorn and chick flicks. I think we're going to need them tonight." She sighed. Erik's voice was still with her, singing songs in her head. She looked over to Meg, grinning. "OK. You've screened him. Can I have this one?"

Meg stopped stomping and walked over to face her friend. "Hun, I doubt anything I'd say could dissuade you, even if I wanted to. But, yes, you can have this one…" she paused significantly. During her eavesdropping session, Meg had figured out a thing or two about Erik that Christine had not yet begun to see. "That is… if you can catch and hold him."


	12. Sage Advice

** Sage Advice**

Erik walked into his kitchen and looked at the phone with distaste for a few minutes before picking it up. It was an older touch-tone model from the early nineties. It was the most basic model available and there was no answering machine. Who would ever call him? And when was he ever away from home to miss a call? He quickly dialed a number and listened to it ringing on the other end. After five rings, a voice-answering service picked up and a man's voice with a light Middle-eastern accent said, "Hello, this is Nadir Khan. I am not answering my phone right now, but..." Erik pressed the receiver button, listened for a dial tone and called again. And again.

"Dammit Khan! Where are you?"

Erik dialed one more time. This time, there was an answer on the third ring. The accent was thicker; the voice was sleep-drunk and annoyed. "Hello?"

"Nadir, it's Erik."

There was a pause, the sound of a chair creaking, and Nadir's deep sigh. "Erik, it's past midnight. You better be sick or arrested."

"It is neither of those. I've met a girl, Nadir."

"And that warrants interrupting an old man's sleep in the wee hours? Can this possibly wait until tomorrow?" Nadir was actually happy to hear from Erik; he only wished Erik kept the same hours as the rest of humanity. "Is she pretty?"

"Not even the tiniest bit, but she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

"This does sound serious." Erik heard Nadir get up and start shuffling around the house. "Where did you meet her."

"Online."

"Oh, the internet. Never been there myself. I've heard it's an interesting place. How old is she?"

"Mid-twenties." Erik knew Nadir would take issue here.

"Too young Erik, too young! You're an old man of thirty-eight winters. You should try to stay within your decade."

"It's not exactly like I get my pick." Erik's voice held bitterness for a moment, before returning to what passed for a conversational tone in his mind. "But Nadir, that doesn't matter. You should hear her play. She's only had one lesson now, but you should hear her sing! She's a genius..."

"Just like you, eh, my young friend? An unbeautiful genius." Nadir chuckled. "If you met her online, how do you know any of this about her?"

"We have microphones. It's a thing called voice chat. She has a camera that transmits streaming video over the web..."

"And you, Erik. Do you have one of these cameras? Has she seen you?" Ever perceptive, the old man knew the answer before Erik spoke.

Erik could hear the knowing tone in the old man's voice. "No. She has only heard me."

"You drew the girl in with your music without telling her the whole truth. You've found that you like her, and she likes you. And so you call your old friend, the Khan, to tell you what to do next because she is a wonderful girl and you would like to know her beyond the internet, but you are afraid of scaring her off forever? Hmm? Is that about right?"

"Yes. I've bought myself time, but eventually she will _have _to see me, won't she." It wasn't a question, so much as a lament.

"Bought yourself time?" Nadir took a sip of his coffee, trying to summon the energy to hear his terse friend out.

"Tonight, I guess she got tired of not knowing anything about me. She asked a flood of questions – some of them silly, some of them not. I told her that I would answer one question per day, if she did well with her voice lessons."

"A modern Scheherazade. One story per night to put off the death of your romance. Fascinating. And when you have answered all her questions and purchased your camera, which will you show her: the mask? or the face..."

"The mask, Nadir. But even that will not be easy." Erik was quiet for a moment. "For either of us. How do I prepare her?"

Again, Nadir sighed. "You always have made things difficult for yourself..."

"I, Nadir? I've found that others do more than their fair share."

"Hence locking yourself up in that apartment for...is it ten years now, Erik? Eleven?"

"Nine. It's better than prison. It's better than contempt and whispers and fear. Besides, I go out. I go for walks, I drop things off in the mailbox..."

"All at night, and always alone, would be my guess."

Erik growled. Nadir did not agree with his reclusive lifestyle. He was forever pushing Erik to leave the house and "_do something worthwhile."_ When Erik spoke again, his tone was chilled and starkly threatening. "My problem, Khan. How do I prepare her?"

"Don't try that voice with me, boy." Nadir laughed, a warm and forgiving sound. "I've seen you in diapers and out of them, and I've seen you gobsmacked on morphine. I'm not afraid of you. As to your problem...Now that you've begun this Scheherazade act, you must play it out. But if you get the chance while you are answering all these questions, tell her the truth. None of your sideways games. Just tell her that your face has been disfigured by bad surgery and bad luck. If she's a good girl, she'll deal with it. That's sage advice from your age-wizened friend, who desperately needs his sleep."

"Nadir, I'm frightened."

Nadir Khan had heard those words from this man before; before surgeries, before they removed the bandages from his face for the final time, before he attempted to attend college the first time. Each time Erik said those words, the event ended disastrously for him. Nadir rubbed his tired eyes and put down the coffee, which could not banish his fatigue. He was an old man now, and needed his rest. Erik had no other friends; there was no one else to call. "I, too, was frightened when I met my wife for the first time. If I had run away then, I would have missed many years with a wonderful woman. All I can tell you is be brave and be truthful. And if you need to talk –during the _daytime_ – call me. I hear far too little from you as it is."

"Goodnight, Nadir. I am sorry I disturbed you."

"Goodnight, Erik.

Erik hung up the phone slowly. He had no real hope that the old man's advice would work, but it was the best advice available. On his way to bed, Erik glanced back over his shoulder at the computer. They would just have to wait and see what the next six nights would bring.


	13. Girl Talk

**Girl-Talk**

Meg and Christine had rented no movies, and there was no popcorn in the apartment. They wound up settling for homemade raw cookie-dough and a re-viewing (for at least the hundredth time) of Christine's copy of _The Princess Bride._ Christine sat curled in her papasan, staring at the screen, occasionally mouthing the words. She and Meg had both memorized this movie when they were young girls having sleepovers in Christine's room. Christine was an only child and had her own room; an arrangement vastly preferable to sharing Meg's room with her very nosy younger sister.

Tonight called back comfortable memories of those nights, though the roles were reversed. In high school especially, Meg had been boy-crazy and often regaled Christine with stories of her romantic pursuits. In those days, Christine rarely had stories to tell. She was a shy girl who spent much more time playing her cello than thinking about boys, or school, or anythign else. She made it through her entire high school career without a boyfriend. As a result, when she left the conservatory, she'd begun dating as though her life depended on it, making numerous bad choices in the process. In the meantime, Meg had found a wonderful guy to whom she was very nearly engaged.

"Meg?" On the screen, Vizzini was climbing into the boat to spirit Buttercup away.

"Mmm?"

"What did you mean by 'catch and hold him'?"

"Haven't you noticed how…I don't know how to describe it… how detached he is? And you say that every time he gets upset, he just logs off. Relationships take sticking power, Miss Chris, let me tell you _that _from experience. Oooh! I love this part! The Cliffs of INSANITY!"

After the climb up the Cliffs began, Christine ventured another comment. "What would you do if you were me?"

"If I were you? I'd probably be just as head-over-heels. You musician types are so emotional. I tell you one thing, though. I'd Google the hell out of him as soon as I knew his last name – make sure he's not a sex-offender or something."

"Do you think he likes me?" Christine felt ridiculous asking such a juvenile question, but she certainly couldn't ask Erik, and Meg was usually a pretty good judge of these things. Of course, Meg usually had facial expressions and body language to go by.

"Shhhh! The Fight Scene!" The two young women watched the classic duel scene at the top of the Cliffs of Insanity. Or, rather, Meg watched. Christine impatiently watched Meg watching the movie. When the duel was over, Meg answered her question. "Sure he likes you. Why else would he spend so much time chatting with you and playing for you and teaching you to sing? The question is, does he like you enough to stop being so damned secretive?"

"I hope so."

"I hope so, too. Now, can we stop talking about Erik and watch the movie? I don't want to miss the part where Westley defeats Fezzik." Meg was already glued to the screen before she finished talking. Christine sighed and gave up. _No sense beating a dead horse – or trying to get Meg to talk while _The Princess Bride_ is playing, _she thought.

When the movie was over, Meg stood and stretched, declaring that it was time for her to go home. If she hurried, she could catch about five hours of sleep before her shift began at eight o'clock. Christine also needed to toddle off to bed and sleep, but when the door closed behind Meg, she began to hear the music.

Of course, as a musician, there was always music echoing in Christine's brain. She had composed several short pieces in her life, mainly to see if she could. This, however, was one of those rare times when the music was speaking itself to her. It wanted to be played. Right then. She sat down to her cello and drew the bow over the strings, tuning up absently. She found herself playing into her empty apartment, making chicken-scrawl notes on the scratch paper she habitually kept near her practice area. Once she was sure she could remember it the next day, she started walking towards her bedroom. Halfway down the hall she stopped.

The monitor flickered to life and Trillian loaded quickly. AngelofMusic was not logged in. _Of course not. It's two in the morning. _Christine was glad he was not logged in. She clicked on his handle and sent an offline message:

minorchord:_ Tonight, in my mind, you were E-minor. Ask me tomorrow. _

It was one of the bravest things Christine had done in a long time. She did not consider herself a composer, and never shared her musical sketches with anyone else. The message was sent. He would ask her about it tomorrow, and she would play it for him if her courage allowed.


	14. Negotiations

**Negotiations**

Christine's cryptic message awaited Erik when he logged in around noon to begin work. At first, all he could think about was that he had been on her mind last night. Checking the time stamp, he saw that the message had been sent at two-fifteen in the morning. Why had she been awake so late? He knew that she shared a morning shift at the coffee shop with her friend, Meg. If she was awake at two-fifteen in the morning, she'd barely gotten five hours of sleep. He spent the next four hours contemplating the connotations of being E-minor in Christine's mind. It wasn't an unusual tuning; some of the most beautiful classical music was written in E-minor… For the first time in his editing career, Erik missed a deadline.

Once the article was successfully edited and emailed back to the writer, Erik hovered near his computer playing aimlessly on the violin and waiting for her to log in.

_**minorchord has logged on**. _

AngelofMusic: _Not only have I not edited any good articles today, I missed a deadline by half an _

_hour. What did you mean by that cryptic note you sent me last night?_

minorchord: _ All shall be revealed in the fullness of time. I've already warmed up, and I'm ready _

_for my lesson, Professor Erik. _

AngelofMusic_: You are far too chipper for someone who has had less than six hours' sleep. _

minorchord:_ I'm punch-drunk, maybe. I've had a _lot_ of espresso today. A _lot._ Please, can we sing_

_now?_

AngelofMusic:_Certainly. _

Erik had prepared himself well to hear her sing. The amount of progress she had made with just the one lesson was staggering. Erik remembered the effect those two lessons had had on his voice. She was so like him…

"I'm glad you warmed up before you logged in. I want to play around a bit with your range today. I think you'll be surprised at yourself."

For the next half hour, Erik played pieces of simple classical arias and asked Christine to sing back what she heard. He began to emphasize technical work, such as resonance, mask, and enunciation. The lesson was kept short to avoid stressing her vocal chords for the second time in two days. There was so much she still had to learn! Nevertheless, he was pleased with how quickly she corrected herself.

"That's enough for today." Regret tinged his voice.

"I never imagined I could sound like that. And it will only get better. Thank you so much, Erik. This has been a dream of mine for years." It had. She'd been completely devoted to her cello and had declined voice lessons when they were offered, thinking she could only concentrate on one thing at a time.

Erik's voice was so low, she could barely make out his words. "You're very welcome," he muttered, then his voice became inaudible to her. "Anything to make you smile."

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Nothing…it was nothing. My microphone slipped." The lie was easy and guiltless.

"Oh. Well. Anyway. Thank you. But, did I do well at my lesson?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"Then I get my answer. I'm ready for it."

Erik rolled his eyes, glad she couldn't see him. "What was your second question? What do I think of Lesley Garrett? That's a pretty serious question, isn't it?"

"I wasn't being literal with every question and you know it. You are teasing me."

"Ah, but you asked them." Erik waggled his finger at the microphone, and suddenly found himself wishing he could wag that finger directly under her upturned nose. "And here we begin our negotiations. My offer is this: If you will agree to answer the same question you ask and I answer, I will allow you to drop one question."

"Wait. Did I hear you correctly? If I agree to answer my own questions after you answer them, you will get straight to the questions I really meant to ask?"

"Yes. Do you agree?" Christine could remember some of the questions she had asked, but she had no doubt Erik remembered them all perfectly. She sincerely hoped the Lesley Garrett question was the only useless question she'd asked.

"Alright. But you don't get to play djinn tricks on me. You must answer my questions to my satisfaction."

"If you are willing to do likewise..." It sounded like a half question/half challenge.

"I am."

"May I assume that you wish to drop the Lesley Garrett question?" His tone was insufferably snide.

"Erik..." Christine's voice was not accustomed to carrying a threatening tone, but Erik thought she did very well for one so unpracticed.

"Your first serious question was, _'Where do you live?'_ I live in a two bedroom apartment in The Park at Northgate, which is in Seattle. If you'd like the address, I'll give that to you as well, but you've promised to answer whatever I answer, I don't think young women should give out their addresses over the web. Do you?"

Christine was grinning broadly, her face beginning to ache. Who would ever have guessed that he was so close? "You're not far away from me at all! I'm at the Whisperwood apartments. We could meet..."

"NO!" Erik realized he had shouted the word. He looked and winced to see her wounded expression. Her mouth was working, but no sound came out. Trying to take back the hurt, he said it again, more softly. "No. Not yet, not now. I...I haven't answered all your questions yet. You can't know that you want to meet me. You haven't..."

"I just thought...I only thought that we could get together someplace public and maybe... play together. Microphones only transmit one way. I only thought we could play together." She was close to tears, stung by his rejection. She couldn't understand.

"Wait, Christine. Wait until I've answered everything. Please." He was watching the webcam, watching her face, wanting to see that hurt look disappear. '_Please_' was not a word Erik was used to saying, but he was willing to say it, if it would help erase that look. "Just promise me you'll wait. Please."

Christine just nodded and then brightened, remembering that she had something to give Erik.

"Ok. I promise. Do you remember _your_ question? That deadline you missed?"

Relieved, Erik blew the breath he was holding out slowly. "I remember. I'm sure the journal remembers, too. Thank goodness I've been on time for six straight years. What _was _that about?"

Christine didn't answer him. She simply took her cello and began to play. She had been worried she might forget the melody from the night before, but it flowed as easily and naturally as the first time. Erik listened, entranced by the sweet, sad melody. '_You were E-minor in my mind last night.' _This is what she meant. When the last strains of the song faded he wanted to speak, but before he could say a word of praise, he saw

**_minorchord has logged off._**


	15. Just Play

**Just Play**

Christine logged off, knowing that she had touched him without any word from him. Tomorrow, they could discuss it. Tonight she wanted to go to sleep – and sleep was very near her, now – knowing that she'd moved him with her own music. Her narrow bed felt soft and inviting. Upon lying down, she felt the toll that standing all day took on her body. In a few breaths, she was deeply asleep.

Christine was a different woman at work the next day. The tip jar in front of the cash register quickly filled as she charmed almost every customer with an unusually sunny disposition. Meg constantly shot knowing looks her way. During a brief break, Christine hummed a bit of her composition for her friend. She said nothing of Erik's explosion.

"That's really pretty, Christine. Seriously. Have you actually written it down?"

"I know I should, but it seems wrong, somehow. It'll look so flattened out on paper." Christine leaned over the sink to examine her reflection in the paper towel dispenser. She'd put on some lip gloss that morning on a whim. The little gesture had left her feeling markedly more attractive all day.

"I hope you have it well-memorized, then. It would be a real pity if you 'lost' it." Meg was actively refraining from mentioning the shine on her friend's lips and eyes. She truly had the look of a woman in love. It was a strange look for Christine. Meg realized that, though her friend had dated several guys, she'd never actually been in love. _Good for you, Christine. I hope it _is_ love, and not just infatuation._

Christine stepped close to Meg and spoke in a whisper, as though relating some great secret. "I can't forget it, Meg. All I have to do it speak with him, and it comes flooding in my mind. Even though I composed it, it's a melody all his own."

Meg just shook her flaming red hair and smiled. She didn't understand how such a connection could be formed over an electronic medium, but it warmed her to see Christine floating lightly through the day, instead of suffering every moment. She noted the sudden appearance of lip gloss with little surprise. Her friend had it bad, and she hadn't even met the guy yet.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- -- -- -- - -- -- - - --- ---- --- ------- ---- -- ---

Erik sat quietly in front of his monitor, looking at the log-off message. Just as he'd disappeared the night before, she'd chosen to disappear tonight. _Fair's fair,_ he decided. He checked the clock. It was only ten p.m., there was plenty of night left ahead of him. Curiously enough, he discovered that he felt sleepy. There was work to be done with a deadline of noon the next day. Normally, he would have done that work over night, sent it in and slept until noon. Tonight, he set his alarm for seven the next morning, and settled in for one of the best night's sleep he'd had in years.

The next morning, he woke to see the sun and –for once- didn't curse its light. The editing job was quickly done. There were four hours to blow between now and Christine's much anticipated appearance. Erik was a little worried about tonight. The question was a difficult one, to say the least. How could he explain why he was not a performer without giving everything away? Much like Christine and her lip gloss, Erik decided purely on a whim to do something very unusual. He decided to take a walk through Carkeek park while he mulled his problem. It was a beautiful place and had a wildness left in it that called to him.

It was a chilly, wet Spring day. Erik donned hiking boots, a pair of well-worn jeans, and a thick black hooded sweatshirt. Finally, he tied his mask on and pulled the hood up over his head to obscure the mask. Going out during the day meant stares and whispers; he was determined not to mind. If Christine was going to see him, he had to be able to deal with a little staring.

He walked from the bus stop to the gates of the park, savoring the cool breeze and the rare breakthrough of sunshine that warmed the top of his head and his shoulders. He stood for a moment and watched the people. Grandparents and grandchildren, husbands and wives, lone hikers, lovers, and roaming crowds of teenagers wandered here and there, enjoying the natural beauty surrounding them. Erik marveled at their freedom, their ease with one another. He found his way to the shore, where the crowds were a bit sparser. There were still plenty of people around to watch, but it no longer seemed as overwhelming.

The sun stayed out, instead of pulling back behind the clouds as was its wont in this corner of the world. A young couple passed only a few feet away from him. They were both beautiful in a messily groomed, bohemian way, and they were clearly deeply smitten with each other. He found that he couldn't tear his eyes away from the way the boy rested his arm lightly on her shoulders while hers twined around the boy's waist possessively. _Two people, one soul. I wonder if they know how beautiful they are?_ he thought with a only trace of his customary bitterness. Longing was replacing the bitterness in his heart. If he and Christine were to walk this beach together, they wouldn't make nearly as pretty a picture, but the feeling…

A breeze blew his hood back. Erik felt the sun on his hair, felt it warming his black leather mask even as the steady breeze cooled it. He walked down the beach a way, and stopped to watch a mothers' group. Six young women stood on the beach watching a huddled group of kids sitting and digging in the wet sand. The scene was idyllic.

But fate could not allow Erik to enjoy such peace for long. The ties on his mask had become loose. Just as two of the young mothers took notice of the strange masked man staring at them and their children, a particularly strong gust of wind blew the mask off his face. Quick as lightning, Erik's hand flashed out and caught the treasonous thing, but it was too late. The screams of women and children assailed him. The last thing he saw as he turned and fled, pulling his hood over his head as he ran, was the panicked faces of young mothers gathering their screaming children to them.

--- - - - --- --- - --- -- - --- ----- --- ----- ------ ----- ---- ----

Christine logged on at four o'clock sharp to find Erik waiting for her. Before she could type out her greeting, a message popped up on the screen.

AngelofMusic: _Turn on voice. _

minorchord: _Ok. What's up? _

AngelofMusic: _Just do it. _

Feeling a bit miffed, Christine briefly considered refusing until he explained himself to her, but she was still floating on the golden cloud she'd been on all day and was feeling forgiving. She opened Voicechat and turned on her camera.

"What's up, Erik?"

Her voice. Her sweet voice.

"The answer to the next question is Valliere. My last name is Valliere." Erik's voice was shaking and his words were strained.

"What's wrong?" Christine had never heard so much emotion in his voice before. Worry creased her brow and threatened to steal her breath. "What happened? Are you ok?"

Her concern was like a knife; it cut him to the quick, but he savored the pain. She actually cared. It had been many, many years since someone other than Nadir had cared how he felt.

"No. I'm not ok. Christine, play something for me. Anything beautiful. Just play. Make me forget…" his voice broke off. All she could hear was his ragged breathing.

"It's ok, Erik. Whatever it is, it'll be ok." There was no response. "This is Suo-Gan. It's a Welsh lullaby my mother used to sing to me. I think they used it in _Empire of the Sun." _She liftedher flute to her lips and played as gently and soothingly as she knew how. When she was done, she set the flute aside and sat back, trying to think how she could be of comfort.

"Will you tell me what happened now?"

Erik could not remember the last time he had turned to another person for comfort. He had to admit that the sweet lullaby had done its work. The image of screaming women and children had faded a bit, but could he tell her what had happened?

"No, Christine. I'm sorry. I can't tell you. But…you'll know soon enough." He paused and sighed. Despite the long sleep he'd gotten the night before, he felt immeasurably tired. "How about you, Christine? What's your last name?"

"Daae." She spelled it out for him. "It's an unusual last name. No one ever spells it correctly. But, Erik, if something happened…"

"It's beautiful," he interrupted her gently. Would you care to sing a bit? I'd like to see how you are doing with technique."

Christine considered his strange mood. He was being kind, his voice gentle. Whatever had happened, it had shaken him badly. She acquiesced to his suggestion that she sing. Erik demanded perfection, and after an hour she was exhausted. They passed the rest of the evening in quiet conversation about politics and new music. Only once did Christine attempt to ask what had happened. Erik immediately steered the conversation in a different direction.

When it came time to log off, Christine looked at the camera shyly and said, "I'm sorry something upset you today. If I were there, I'd hug you and make you for get all about it." It didn't seem such a strange thing to say. She and Meg gave each other "phone hugs" all the time.

"Thank you, Christine. Sleep well," is what Erik said aloud. After she logged out, he muttered, "No you wouldn't," and picked up his violin.


	16. A Most Peculiar Man

**A Most Peculiar Man**

Christine couldn't dial Meg's number fast enough. Meg normally kept late hours; for this, Christine would have waked her up anyway.

"Hi, Miss Chris! I thought you were normally online with your man right about now…" Meg drew out the word 'man' until it was three syllables long.

"Hey Meg. That's actually why I'm calling. I mean, _he_'_s _why I'm calling."

"Damn. And here I thought you just wanted to talk to your old friend. It's ok, girl. I know what it's like to be smitten. So, tell me about wonderful Erik." Meg sat down in her favorite overstuffed recliner and put her feet up. The moment the chair unfolded, her little Jack Russell terrier jumped up into her lap and made itself at home.

"It's two things, really. The first thing, the little thing, is that I know his last name…"

"GOOGLE!" Meg shrieked. A split second later, Christine could hear her apologizing to the dog, "Aw, come back, Chino. Mommy's got a snacky for you. yummy, yummy snacky treats. Good girl! Now, Christine, as I was saying. Go now and Google him."

"Will you give me yummy, yummy snacky treats if I do?" Christine snorted laughter. Brash, aggressive Meg was an absolute push-over when it came to her little dog.

"Absolutely."

"The other thing…" Christine sat down at her computer and opened Firefox, accessing Google a second later. "…is that something happened to him today. When I logged on, he was waiting for me. He seemed really upset, said he wasn't ok, and begged me to play something for him. But no matter what I said, he wouldn't talk about it with me."

"Normally, I'd say that's weird. But then, he _is_ a musician. I can't count the number of times you've told me you didn't want to talk and then shut yourself up in a room with Nine Inch Nails or some such. "

"It's not that it's weird...How would you spell Valliere? I know he spells his first name with a k at the end. Valliere...hmmm. It's not that it's weird; it's that it made me worried for him. He sounded completely torn up."

"I don't know. I only took a little French in high school. I'd bet on two Ls... Well, if it worries you that much, just make him tell you."

"Meg. Please. You heard him talking. How do you _make _a man like that do anything he doesn't want to do? Ok...nothing under V-A-L-L-I-E-R." Christine groaned in frustration. In English, she was a spelling whiz.

"Try adding an E to the end. The French love to add Es to the ends of their words. And I don't know. Use your feminine wiles. Seriously, hun, it could be important."

"Oh my god, Meg."

"What?"

"I found him. I found Erik."

"You don't sound happy about it."

"June twenty-fourth, nineteen ninety-four. Erik Valliere, charged with misdemeanor simple assault. Guilty." Christine could barely make herself say the words. She searched for a mug shot, but there was none. "Meg, he's been to jail!"

"You haven't told him where you live...have you?" Meg's voice had lost its chatty tones. Christine's amour was a convicted criminal!

"No. No I haven't. Of course not. I'm not stupid. But, what does 'simple assault' mean? He assaulted someone simply?"

"Don't be dense. It means he didn't use a weapon. It basically means he got in a fistfight. It means he's violent. You don't want to get mixed up with a man like that." Meg could just see Christine in a battered women's shelter with a back eye. And then Meg would have to kill the man responsible. No way. "You need to stop talking to him, stop emailing him, stop whatever it is you two are doing, because this is..."

"I probably will. But Meg, I have to know the story first." Christine braced herself for the tirade she knew would come.

"And _naturally_ he'll just tell you the truth? I don't think so, girl. Just don't talk to him anymore." Meg's voice was filled with dire warnings. "Let's just make a general rule against men with criminal records. I think that's a good..."

"No. I understand what you're saying, and it would sound like good advice, except that...I just have to know. I promise I'll keep you up to date on anything I find out. Ok?"

"You know it's not ok."

"I know, Meg. I'm off tomorrow. I'll be at work the day after. You can inspect me yourself and see that no one has eaten me." Christine's weak attempt at humor fell utterly flat.

"Be careful."

"I will."

"Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Meg."

Before she went to bed, Christine sent an offline message to Erik.

minorchord:_ I do not work tomorrow. I will be near the computer, practicing starting at noon. As_

_soon as you get this message, please respond. It is important._


	17. And It All Comes Down to This

**And It All Comes Down to This**

Christine practiced cello first. She strongly believed in moving from strength to weakness. Playing her cello helped her work out some of the jitters that had been plaguing her all morning. She did not want to have this conversation with Erik. She wanted to pretend that she had never seen his criminal history, but that would truly be foolish. She couldn't imagine how he'd react. After whatever happened to him yesterday, this could be the last straw. But, as she told Meg, she had to know.

Around two, he appeared. She waited for him to send her a message first.

AngelofMusic:_ Christine? Are you there?_

minorchord:_ I am here. We need to talk._

Erik's heart careened painfully against his ribcage. He'd never been in a relationship before, but he knew those words usually were a death-knell.

AngelofMusic:_ Voicechat?_

minorchord:_ No. Your voice would influence me, I think._

AngelofMusic:_ You are worrying me, Christine. _

minorchord:_ You gave me your last name. I searched for you on Google. I found out about you._

His heart stopped racing and stood still. She'd found out?

AngelofMusic:_ What did you find, Little Latte? _

minorchord. _Don't call me that. Not until you've explained about the assault. _

AngelofMusic:_ Oh. That. It was a fight. _

minorchord:_ Why? Who? Erik, I thought you were a better man than that._

He was glad they were not in Voicechat. The disappointment in her voice and face would have killed him on the spot.

AngelofMusic: _ I was younger. Young and stupid is the phrase, I think. _

minorchord:_ And that's the truth? The entire truth? You were young and stupid, you got in a fight, _

_and that's the whole of the story. _

AngelofMusic:_ Essentially, yes. A man was ridiculing me. I was young and stupid. I punched_

_him. I hurt him quite badly. _

minorchord: _A guy made fun of you, and you attacked him?_

AngelofMusic: _ It sounds bad, but it's more complex than that. _

minorchord:_ If you can justify it, Erik, I suggest you go ahead._

AngelofMusic:_ Why do I have to justify anything to you? What good will it do either of us?_

minorchord:_ It depends. Oh, go ahead and turn on voice. I can't do this in instant messages. _

AngelofMusic:_ Done._

"Ok. You can hear me, and you can see me – right?"

"Yes." He sounded wary.

"I can only hear you, but it will have to be enough. It's not fair, though, and you know it isn't." Christine had not openly complained about that before, but she was laying everything on the line now.

"Less fair than you know."

"Stop that! Stop being cryptic! Erik, I am going to tell you why you need to justify this thing to me. I am not going to be cryptic. I like you. And I think I could come to...like you...a great deal more. But I can't do that if you are the sort of person who is going to lose his temper and be violent. So justify it to me, Erik. Please." She was facing the camera, flushed with frustration. Her hair had escaped its bonds and was falling over her face.

"You like me?" He sounded like a child, then. The power was gone and his voice was small and vulnerable.

"Yes. I like you. What I know of you. But you constantly remind me that I don't know much about you, because you are afraid to tell me. I'm a grown woman, Erik. I really don't have the time or energy for high school games anymore."

_She likes me? _he thought_. "_Christine, there are three questions left. Why don't I perform, what conclusions do I expect you to draw, and do I have a girlfriend. If you can give me a couple of hours to go take care of some business, I will answer all those questions and justify my past actions to you. If there's a chance that you could truly grow to...to like me, I'll do that. Can you give me two hours?"

Christine's curt, impatient, "Yes," was like a blessing.

"Two hours. Maybe less."

_**AngelofMusic has logged off.**_

Christine wanted to call Meg, but she refrained. For one and a haf hours she sat in front of the computer absently playing little tunes on her cello. It kept trying to flow into _his_ song, but she would not let it. The mystery would end tonight, one way or another.

When he reappeared, she hurriedly set her cello aside.

AngelofMusic:_ Ok. Christine, click on the webcam session. I'm there. Try to keep an open mind._

_That's all I ask. _

minorchord:_ Are you serious? _

AngelofMusic_: Before I lose my courage. Go ahead. _

When she moved the mouse to open the webcam session, she found that her fingers were trembling. The window opened, and there he was. Erik's camera had far better resolution than hers. She saw a tall, lanky man with untrimmed shaggy black hair falling over his masked (masked!) face, sitting in a brown leather computer chair staring at his computer screen with the most intense black eyes she'd ever seen.

"Erik? Why are you wearing a mask?" Christine asked.

"That's the sixty-five thousand dollar question, isn't it, Little Latte? And it's the answer to all your questions. Why did I have a fight? The guy tried to take my mask off. I broke his face for that. Why don't I perform? Because no orchestra would have me – not unless I took the mask off, and then they _really_ wouldn't have me. What conclusions did I expect you to draw from the fact that I wouldn't use a webcam? I expected you to conclude that I must be terribly ugly. And I am. Do I have a girlfriend? No. I don't. Nor do I ever expect to have one." Erik paused to breathe. Christine was sitting very still, very solemn. "Do you remember, Christine, that you almost didn't meet with me because you were afraid I wouldn't like how you look? I laughed when you said that. I laughed because of the irony. So, have I justified myself enough for you? I hope so, because I won't show you what's under this thing. I won't show you because...I like you, too. We will talk tonight. I'll show you my one-of-a-kind Leonhardt violin. But when we log off...will you come back tomorrow? Now that you've seen me, will I ever see you again?" "

Christine continued her solemn, quiet examination of him. "It's still not right to beat someone up. It's just barbaric. A wise man I knew once said that music is the closest a human being can get to peace. And you are closer to music than anyone else I know. What happened yesterday?"

"The truth?"

"From now on, tell me nothing but the truth, please." She could feel his tension, his vulnerability. Christine was very careful to keep her voice gentle and kind, but firm.

"You made me happy with that beautiful cello piece you wrote for me. I felt normal – I felt _human _– for the first time in many years. I went for a walk in Carkeek Park. My mask blew off. Women screamed, children cried. I needed you to make me feel human again. You are the only person who could have done it. Thank you, Christine. Thank you for giving me back my humanity."


	18. Short Night, Long Talk

**Short Night, Long talk**

For a moment, Christine had no reply. What did you say to something like that? '_You're welcome,' _seemed pitifully inadequate. Erik watched her with the coppery taste of fear in his mouth. He did not like unpredictable situations, and this was wholly new ground for him. She had not answered him to promise that she would come back. She had not even admitted that he had been justified in beating that creep senseless. Christine was giving away nothing and he found that he desperately needed _something. _Finally, she spoke.

"I'm glad I could be there to help." It was a thin, flat inadequate statement. "Why did they scream at you? What's –you don't have to show me – what's wrong with your face?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Christine. Let me just say that I am severely disfigured and they saw me and then let's drop it. Is that enough? Can you be satisfied with that?" Erik was sitting back in his chair, almost pulling away from the screen.

_It must be bad,_ she thought, and then on the heels of that thought came a less comfortable one; _Can I deal with something like that?_

"Yes, I'm sorry. I'm satisfied. I don't mean to pry." That seemed to help. He appeared to relax a little; he no longer looked as though he would spring from his chair and run away any second. "You could have told me this sooner, you know.

"How could I? You've become very…" Erik searched for a word. All the words that suggested themselves were too sloppy-sweet. He didn't want to sound like a Hallmark greeting card. He picked the least sentimental, "important to me. I didn't want to risk that you would stop talking to me."

"I'm not that shallow. Do you really think I'm that shallow?" Christine gave him a reproachful look.

"It's not shallow to reject something like me. You're a young, single woman. You have to protect yourself. I'd understand…" but he wouldn't, and he knew it, but it was better to let her think that he would, "if you logged off today and never spoke to me again."

"You said you had a Leonhardt? May I see it?" Christine abruptly changed the subject. She couldn't stand to hear him talk about himself as a "thing."

Erik smiled, and she saw that he had a beautiful smile. He reached off camera and lifted a beautifully crafted black violin case into view. "Christine, you are about to meet my best friend. She's been with me through the worst of the last twenty-two years." He opened the case and lifted the beautiful thing out, displaying it to her with parental pride.

Christine was suitably impressed. It was a thing of beauty, but, "I've never seen a violin with a finish like that. In fact, I've never seen _any_ instrument with a finish like that."

Erik looked down, ashamed. He had done this to his violin the same year he got it. He'd scuffed it lightly with fine grained sand-paper until it no longer reflected his face. "I did that to make it less reflective. My father was very angry, saying that I'd destroyed the value of the instrument. But I knew better. I'd never sell her – the monetary value means nothing."

"Will you play her for me?" This was the moment of decision for Christine.

"The first thing I played on her when they gave her to me was the Moonlight Sonata. It's a well known piece, but it's still one of my favorites."

Erik put the violin under his chin and lifted the bow. He began to play and the wistful sound filled both apartments and both minds. Sitting in his computer chair, Erik had looked like a thin, shaggy man. Aside from his eyes and mask, there was nothing remarkable about him. That changed the moment he began to play. The transformation was so complete, Christine almost rubbed her eyes to make sure what she was seeing was real. He was beautiful; if he'd sprouted wings, she'd hardly have been surprised. The music was wrapped around him like cloth-of-gold. She didn't know it, but she was seeing the same change Erik had admired in her the first time he saw her play. By the time it was over, Christine was sure of her choice and Meg would just have to deal with it.

"Imagine what it would sound like if we played together…" She whispered the words, not wanting to break the spell. Spoken language was so harsh. Why couldn't everything be music?

Still caught in his trance, Erik smiled. "I don't dare. If I were to imagine such a thing, I would want it to come true."

"Why can't it?"

He looked up sharply. "I've got a conviction for assault. I'm…" he gave up on words and gestured at his mask. "this thing. It can't come true, can it?"

"I'm not afraid of you, Erik, if that's what you are thinking."

Erik felt his throat tighten. The truth was in her eyes; she really wasn't frightened by him. He reached up and touched the image of her face on his monitor. The gesture had become habit since Christine set up her webcam. Erik had momentarily forgotten that she could now see him as well.

The gesture was so unassuming, so innocent, that it made Christine's breath catch in her throat. This was a side of Erik that his carefully controlled voice had hidden. "If I invited you to meet me at the entrance to Interlaken Park, would you come and bring your violin?" Christine made the invitation fully aware that his horrible experience the other day had been in a park.

"That's… I don't know."

"I'll lug my cello out there. And…I'll bring sandwiches. And a blanket. We could play together, and have a picnic lunch…" Christine was already there in her mind. The weather was supposed to be beautiful; for once, there was almost no chance of rain.

Erik blinked. "You'd do all that?"

"If you promise to show up, I will. But if I go through all that trouble, and you don't show up…" She let the threat hang in the air.

"And you're sure you want to be seen in public with me?"

"You are just being silly now. Don't." There was only so much self-deprecation she was willing to hear from him.

"I am not. I'm serious. What if something happens, like yesterday? Things go wrong." It seemed to Erik that things went wrong more often than not.

"Then we will leave." Christine could understand that he'd need reassurance. She felt she could give it to him without making herself a liar.

"Together?"   
"Together. I promise. Just meet me there at four, ok? I need to get some sleep now." She didn't mention that she needed to be well-rested to defend herself against her own best friend.

"I will be there. Goodnight, Little Latte."

"Goodnight, Angel."


	19. At Work

**At** **Work **

Christine lingered outside the door of the coffee shop, gathering her courage and trying to hold her cello, her knapsack, and a bag with several sandwiches and brownies without dropping anything. Meg was going to be upset with her. Meg was a wonderful friend, but she had a terribly Irish temper that matched her hair. With a deep breath, Christine bundled everything through the door. From the kitchen, she heard Bess yell, "Daae! You are late! Get in here and get the mugs out. Double-time, girlie-Q!" Christine ran into the kitchen, stowed her stuff as out of the way as possible, and grabbed the rack of mugs. Bess was a nice woman, and was very understanding towards her employees, but there was no reason to goad her.

Meg was already at the counter, setting up the register. Christine tried not to feel the hot glare that was burning the back of her head. She carefully set up the mugs, counted the paper cups, replaced the stirring straws, checked the sugar shaker for clumps, and generally tidied up before going to face her doom behind the counter.

"Good morning, Meg. You ready for the zombie attack?" It was an ongoing joke. The first customers to stumble through the door often closely resembled something from _Night of the Living Dead._

"Did you tell him you weren't interested?" Meg sounded brisk and business-like. That was not good.

"No. I didn't. I told him that I had found him out. He explained what happened, and…"

"And you believed him." Meg's tongue had a razor edge when she wanted it to.

"Yes, Meg, I did. Because I saw him."

"You met him physically? Not online? Please tell me you didn't…"

"I didn't. After I told him that I'd found him out, and he explained, he went out and bought a webcam, so I could see that he was telling the truth." Christine was terrible at covering her emotions. Meg's eyebrows flew halfway up her forehead, hearing an untold story.

"And what was the 'truth' you saw?" The first zombie was shambling toward the counter. Meg took the order in record time and turned back to Christine expectantly.

"I shouldn't tell you. It's something he doesn't want spread."

"I'm not going to spread it. Who would I tell? Honestly Christine, I've already huddled on the floor in order to 'meet' this guy."

"His face is…he wears a mask. He wouldn't show me what his real face looks like."

"That sounds pretty fishy, Christine. I don't know if I'd believe it." Meg was understandably suspicious. It wasn't unheard of for a man to do odd things to try to intrigue a woman.

"I believe it. He has a beautiful Leonhardt violin – that means nothing to you, but Leonhardt is a highly esteemed craftsman – and he'd ruined the finish, just so it wouldn't reflect his face."

Meg stared at her. She wasn't a musician herself, but she'd seen the lengths Christine went through to protect her precious cello. If the man had damaged a fine instrument on purpose, he might truly have a reason to wear a mask. There was no more time to ponder on that now. The zombie attack was fully underway. There would be no more chance for conversation until ten o'clock or later.

Christine moved through the shift thinking that Round 1 had gone very well. There was still Round 2 at lunch, though, when Christine would have to turn down an offer to hang out at Meg's place in favor of her meeting with Erik. She decided to use the Band-Aid approach: do it quickly in the hopes it would hurt less.

"So, Miss Chris. Here we sit, waiting for our food. Time to spare, time for stories..."

Christine took a deep breath. "Ok. I told you he wears a mask. The assault charge is from a time when another guy was teasing him and apparently trying to take the mask off his face. Erik punched him, and in his words _'hurt him quite badly'_. I told Erik that I thought that was barbaric and immature. He agreed." Here came the dangerous moment. "I am meeting him in the park at four o'clock..."

"You've finally gone loopy. That is not safe. Are you listening to me? That is _not safe_ and you could be...he could do anything to you!" Meg's tone was rising and her face was turning a shade of red that complimented her hair nicely. The waiter with their food started towards the table but veered away at the look on Meg's face.

"He could, but he won't." Christine reached for the super-calm voice Erik used when he wished to betray no emotion. She waved at the waiter and nodded reassuringly. "He won't, because I won't put myself in danger. We will be in public the entire time. I won't go anywhere alone with him. And when we start to play, there will be a crowd, I guarantee you that much."

"You're going to play?" Meg thought of how much convincing it had taken to get Christine to play for her boyfriend's family when they visited. Now the girl who had run at full speed from the Lawrence Conservatory was talking blithely about playing her cello in the middle of a public park with a fellow genius in a mask. Christine was right; that _would _draw a crowd.

"Yes. We will play together. It's like a dream come true."

"He's not a musician...he's a magician," Meg muttered into her half-sandwich. "It still makes me nervous. I could go with you, just to make sure."

"No. This is my decision, and I will face the consequences. Not that I think there will be any." Christine finished her salad and stood up to pay. "Megan, I know you are trying to look out for me, and thank you. I know you are worried for me. I'm a little nervous myself. But I want this enough to take the risk. He's worth it. Look, I'll tell you what. Call my cell phone at ten o'clock sharp. If I don't answer, you can assume I've been dragged off to a horrible death and you can call the cops."

Christine hugged her friend, then crossed the road and clocked back into work. Meg followed after her, not sure if she should be feeling angry or proud. By the time she'd gotten her first steam burn of the afternoon from the cappuccino machine, she'd chosen to be proud; there was no point in getting angry.

When the shift ended, Meg helped Christine load up with her stack of belongings and totter onto the bus. Christine smiled her thanks. When the bus was out of sight, Meg walked home, took a shower, had some dinner, then grabbed the spare key to Christine's apartment and went there to wait.


	20. And at Play

**A/N: To all of you who have asked: No, this story isn't prewritten. I am posting as I write. The story and its characters have taken me over. I am very lucky it is Spring Break, so the only things beign impacted ar my work and my family life. I am very glad you are enjoying my story. Thank you for the wonderful reviews which speed my production and the very helpful critiques which increase my quality! **

**And At Play**

Erik arrived at the park on the three-thirty bus. He wanted to prepare himself, if he could. Now he was standing at the bus stop, covered in a cold sweat. His hands were shaking, his stomach was knotted tightly, and his knees felt numb. The handle of his violin case was slicked with sweat, making it difficult to grip. He wondered if she was feeling anything akin to this. _Probably not_, he decided. _She's had dates before_. A date? Was this a date? Nervousness began to bloom into panic. He checked his hood, which was snugly cinched around his mask. Despite the warm weather and the beautiful sunshine, the hood would stay up and the mask would stay on. There would be no accidental de-maskings this time.

The four o'clock bus pulled up to the shelter. The doors opened and people began to stream out, most of them casting curious glances towards the tall, thin masked man who stood nervously to one side of the door. _Where is she,_ he wondered, before realizing that with all the equipment she was carrying she'd probably be the last one off the bus. What exquisite torture! And there she was.

To an unbiased observer, Christine would have looked like an ordinary short, plump girl with dark, frizzed hair, red lips, freckles, and entirely too much stuff in her hands. To Erik, she looked like an angel. He reflected that her web camera was terrible; it did her no justice. She'd come, as she said she would. In a pleasant dream, he watched her clamber down the steps and nearly pitch forward onto the pavement. It never occurred to him that he might go to her and help her until she'd already gotten herself straightened out. By then she'd spotted him and was waving, a nervous smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

"Hi. Erik, could you, uh, help me out here?" Christine gestured with the hand that was not clutching her cello case to all the bags piled around her. She suppressed a laugh when he suddenly snapped to attention and walked quickly to her side.

"Of course." He began gathering things into his arms without taking his eyes off of her.

Christine stared back. At first, she took in his height. He must stand over six feet tell, dwarfing her five feet and two inches. _But_, she thought, _we weigh about the same thing. _ He was terribly thin. His clothes were clean, but starkly simple. She'd noticed his eyes before – it was impossible not to – but the camera had disguised their luster. They were so black that the pupil was invisible. The mask covered everything else; it only had two small slits in the nose space for him to breathe through. She didn't need to see anything else. His eyes had captivated her entirely.

They were standing three feet apart, staring at each other, still as statues. People passing by wondered if they were one of the strange "living art" pieces that sometimes cropped up in odd places in Seattle. That illusion was broken five minutes later when the panicky paranoia tormenting Erik forced him to speak.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

Christine tipped her head to the side. She wasn't the only one doing the staring.

"Why are _you_ staring at _me_ like that?" she retorted sharply.

He blinked in surprise when she suddenly started laughing. The nervous tension that had been with her since her confrontation with Meg at the bistro finally boiled over. She laughed until she couldn't breathe. Tears streamed out her eyes and dripped onto her cello case. When she saw the little pools of water on her cello case, she looked up to Erik who was still staring at her, mute with horror. His frozen posture and confused gaze redoubled her laughter until her stomach muscles were as weak and jiggly as Jell-O. When she had finally gotten herself under control except for the occasional spurt of giggles, she wiped her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. Erik still looked horrified, but he was also beginning to look hurt.

"Oh, Erik. I'm sorry. I am. I'm not laughing at you...I'm laughing at us." She waited for understanding to dawn. When it didn't, she tried again. "We've been talking for months and months, we never run out of things to say, and when we finally get together what do we do? We stand there and stare at each other like a couple of mannequins. Come on. Help me carry this stuff somewhere where we can sit down and be comfortable."

She began walking and he followed, still silent. This was not going as he imagined. With Christine, nothing ever went as he imagined it would. She had set down her cello case and was spreading the blanket on a swath of verdant grass. Swallowing his bruised pride, he helped her smooth the blanket and set out the sandwiches.

"Would you like chicken or tuna?" Christine asked.

"Chicken, please." Erik took the proffered sandwich and began to eat. He realized he was still staring at Christine. In a flash of insight, he got the joke. A slow, warm smile spread across his face. "It is funny, isn't it..." he remarked, between bites. She just grinned up at him.

It seemed to Erik that the same crowd of people from Carkeek Park had decided to come to Interlaken Park today. They milled about on their own business, not paying Christine and Erik the least bit of attention. He realized that he was not uncomfortable, and pondered over that for awhile. It was because he was not a thing apart from them; this time, he was among them.

"Christine?"

"Yeah?"

"It's really beautiful out here." The last bite of his sandwich disappeared in one big swallow.

"We could make it even more beautiful...Want a brownie?"

Never one for sweets, Erik almost shook his head, but then he took it. _She_ had made these brownies. He ate one slowly, gaining a new appreciation for chocolate deserts as he did. The lazy atmosphere of the brilliant Spring day infected both of them. They chewed slowly and watched people walk, bike, and skate by.

"How?" Erik asked.

"How what?"

"How could we make it more beautiful? Everything seems impossibly perfect already."

Christine finished her brownie, stood up and stretched languorously. She strolled over to her cello, opened the case and took it out with a satisfied smile. Turning the case on its side, she sat down on it and began rosining her bow. "I see you also brought your weapon of choice. Why don't you pull it out and let's see what kind of magic we can make?"

Erik flipped open the catches to his violin and tuned up to match Christine's tunings. He felt oddly excited. He could not wrap his mind around the idea that this day had come so quickly, that they were moments away from making music together. She caught his eye and winked.

"Remember when we talked about Schulhoff?" she asked.

"You said you 'didn't prefer' Schulhoff."

"Yes, but you said you loved Schulhoff." She looked down, suddenly shy. "So, I learned Schulhoff. The duo for violin and cello. I learned to like Schulhoff. There's more there than I originally thought."

"For me? You learned it for me?" Erik asked, in complete disbelief. "It's an immense piece!"

"Yes, Erik, I learned it for you. You claimed to already know it. Shall we?"

No more urging was necessary. Erik began to play, and Christine chimed in at her cue. Staring into one another's eyes, no laughter this time, the two musicians floated away on a musical cloud. A crowd began to gather, people sat on the grass and stood in clumps around the impromptu performance. The performers didn't notice in the least. By the time they'd played all four movements, the crowd had grown to nearly three hundred people who burst into spontaneous applause as the breeze carried away the last notes.

That got their attention. Christine had expected a small crowd. She had even expected a smattering of applause. The thundering ovation that crashed down on them was far beyond her expectations. She looked over to Erik. He was staring at the crowd, his eyes wide and bright. He looked very much like a frog paralyzed in the beam of a flashlight. He was moving slowly, like a man trying not to attract the attention of a wild and potentially vicious animal.

"I think we've been spotted,' she whispered.

"Christine, we're surrounded," he whispered back. "How are we going to get out of here?"

"Why, that's simple! We play an encore, pack up, and leave." She was smiling now. Before the Conservatory, Christine had liked nothing better than performing. The adrenaline rush, the energy, the pride...memories flooded back, making her eyes sparkle and her grin widen.

"Are you crazy?" he hissed. "They are all staring at me!"

"No. They _aren't_ staring at you. They are staring at _us_. And they love us." Christine bowed slightly, bringing another round of applause. The crowd continued to swell, curious passers-by stopped to find out what all the fuss was. "Erik, you told me you were good, that you could play anything. I challenge you. Do you remember the piece I wrote for you?"

"I'll never forget it."

"If I played it now, do you think you could weave a counterpoint through it?"

"Indubitably." Now _his_ eyes glittered at the challenge. Her excitement and the utter joy on her face lent him courage. She'd begun to play, softly and sweetly. _I love you, _he thought deliriously, _and I will make you love me. I don't know how, but it _will_ happen. _ Erik easily played counterpoint to her composition. Together, they cast a spell over the crowd. When it was done, they both stood and bowed to cheers and loud clapping. Christine reached over and took Erik's hand in hers. She bowed one last time, but he just stood there, feeling her warm hand encircling his.

"That's all for today. Thank you for listening! Have a wonderful evening!" Christine announced, and turned to pack up her things amidst sighs of disappointment. After a moment, Erik caught on and carefully stowed his violin.

"They liked it," he murmured, amazed.

"No. I already told you. They _loved_ it." Christine was smiling broadly. "Walk me back to the bus?"

"Certainly."

"Join me at my place for coffee?"

His stunned stare melted into a smile and gave her her answer.


	21. The Wheels on the Bus

**A/N: This is a longer-than-normal chapter. Beware: here there be pain.**

**The Wheels On the Bus**

Erik helped Christine maneuver her cello down the narrow walkway on the bus without bumping too many people. It was early in the evening; most people had already left the park, so the bus was running at about half capacity. Erik folded his length into the window seat, the bags under his knees, and his violin in his lap. Christine sat in the aisle seat, holding onto her cello. She noticed that Erik had lapsed into a morose silence. The ride to her stop would take more than thirty minutes; a long time, if he sat silent as a rock the whole way.

"Erik? Are you ok?"

He smiled at her, trying not to feel trapped. He'd always hated the buses, but he didn't go out enough to warrant the expense of maintaining a vehicle. "Yes, Little Latte, I'm ok." She was with him. He wasn't alone. Erik forced the trapped feeling to give way to the warmth he'd felt as they played together. She was amazing. Hetried to make conversation.

"You know why I don't perform. But you… I don't understand why I don't own one of your CDs, or why I haven't purchased a recording of some Philharmonic, featuring you. Why don't _you_ perform? You love it! I saw it in your eyes when you challenged me."

Christine closed her eyes. She'd hoped he would forget to ask, even though she knew he wouldn't. "It's very embarrassing. I don't like talking about it. But," and here she sighed, opened her eyes and looked at him, "you've gone past _your_ comfort zone, so I don't have much of an argument, do I?"

Erik felt empathy for her, but he smirked and shook his head slowly, emphatically, from side to side. "I'm afraid not. Go ahead."

She turned her face away a little and spoke in a low tone. When I was younger, I was heavier than I am now. A _lot_ heavier. I got that way because I didn't care what I looked like. It didn't matter, because I was playing my cello and my flute. I did perform then. My parents didn't want me in the limelight so much – they thought it would be unhealthy for me. It made my teachers very angry. They called me a prodigy, and told my parents they were wasting my talent. I didn't care. Performing at local theaters was fun, I loved it, but I didn't care whether I ever was on a major stage – just as long as I could play. When I graduated high school, my parents told me that _now _was my chance to bloom. They drove me to several different conservatories where I auditioned. I was accepted to every single one. I chose Lawrence, because it had beautiful grounds and was very old." She paused, remembering.

"Lawrence Conservatory. Impressive." Erik spoke more to keep her talking than to respond to anything she'd said.

"I suppose so. All I knew was that I was playing, people were impressed with me, and it looked like I was going to get to make a career out of doing the thing I loved most. You've seen me play; I'm not being conceited when I say that I'm very good. I suppose I was too good. I wasn't very popular. Many of the other students were angry at the attention I received from the professors. They teased me mercilessly because of my weight. The professors even noticed and would sometimes take the guilty ones to task, but it didn't matter to me. I just holed up in my room and played the days away. When I got lonely I called Meg – I know you don't like meeting people, but you really should meet Meg – and she made me feel better."

Erik interrupted her, and there was anger in his voice. "They didn't tease you because of your weight. They teased you because you were better than they were, and they knew it," he growled.

"Whatever the reason, I ignored it. And then there was the senior symphony performance. We…I don't want to make this a long story…the top six students in the senior class each had a solo. I was first in my class, so I had the final solo. During my solo, a couple of the kids who'd hated me the most…well, they got into the AV room. I was playing so well." The bitter old memories were bringing tears; Christine desperately did not want to cry.

Erik looked over at her, alarmed by the tremor in her voice. He saw that her eyes were wet, though no tear had escaped to her cheek. He lifted a hand to take hers, but his own fears overcame him. His hand wilted back to his lap. She was entrenched in memory and never noticed the gesture.

"They had a recording of cows mooing. And they played it over my performance. It was the first time their teasing made it past my music. They ruined my performance. I jumped up and ran. I was on a grey-hound bus for home the very next day. I couldn't bring myself to eat more than a bite here and there for months – that's how I lost most of the weight, so maybe it was a good thing."

Erik did take her hand then. The first time he'd dared to show his face in public, people had screamed and yelled things at him – he'd had a similar reaction, but there'd been no excess weight for him to lose. He only began eating again when the doctors threatened to feed him through a tube. She squeezed his hand, grateful for the support, but didn't look up.

"The professors called me and told me that the perpetrators had been expelled. The dean of students has been calling me every week for more than a year, begging me to come back and finish the few credits I abandoned. But I can't ever go back. Today, with you, was the first time I've performed since then. It felt good, but only because I was with you." She did look up then, and the look in his eyes brought Meg's warnings up in her mind. He looked furious, dangerous.

"Expelled. I wish I'd been there. I would have…" he was snarling the words and there was no doubt that he meant every one.

"No. You wouldn't, Erik. Because that would be wrong." His anger on her behalf both touched and alarmed her. This was the sort of man who would fight, or even kill, for the woman he loved. "It's in the past. I need to let it go…I just can't seem to yet." Christine fought for control. Tears wanted to fall, but now she was afraid that if Erik saw her crying he would do something drastic – like hunt down each of her tormentors.

"Hmmph," was his expansive response. He let go of her hand and turned to stare out the window. It was a nasty world that would bring down an angel like Christine. He hated it, hated that he could do nothing about it.

While he was in this blue study, Christine took the opportunity to study his face – or his mask. It covered his face from his upper lip to his hairline. It looked like leather; very soft, flexible black leather. She wondered what it felt like to wear a mask over one's entire face. _I bet it's hot. I bet it gets really uncomfortable when the weather warms up._

Ever observant, Erik noticed her interest. It was normal for her to be curious about his mask; masks were not common pieces of apparel. Everyone was curious. He pretended to keep staring out the window, waiting to see what she would do.

Christine's curiosity began to get the better of her. She wanted to find out if her guess was correct; that the mask was soft leather. She raised her hand, meaning to touch just the edge, to see what it felt like. Her hand was within an inch of the black material when Eric turned, fast as a snake, and caught her wrist. His grip was not painfully tight, but Christine could feel the strength behind it. Her wrist may as well have been in a steel manacle.

"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?" His eyes had narrowed, his breath was rapid and shallow. His voice was quiet, but there was a threat in it that promised pain, and lots of it.

Christine had said she was not afraid of him. At the time, she hadn't been. She tried very hard to keep her calm. He was, after all, being gentle. He had not punched her in the face, as he had done to the other guy. _He thinks I was trying to take it off. I don't _want_ to take it off. "_I wanted to feel your mask. I wanted to know what it's made of. Please let go of my arm, Erik."

Erik did not let go of her arm. He was too deep in believing that she had tried to betray him, to take off his mask on a city bus, where others would see and there would be no place to run. "Oh. Is that all," he hissed. "You weren't trying to unmask me? You weren't trying to humiliate me in front of all these people?" The questions were rhetorical.

"No. Erik. Let go of my arm. I don't want to take your mask off. I really was just curious about the material. That's it, that's all." She was trying to sound calm and unafraid, but the tone of his voice and the threat in his eyes was slowly undoing her. "You've trusted me this far and everything's been ok, hasn't it? Please, don't stop now."

She couldn't see it, but he'd quirked an eyebrow. "Trust you?" He sat back, still holding her wrist, still glaring ice at her. "And if I trust you, what will you do?"

"I'll put my hand in my lap and we can pretend this didn't happen."

He tightened his grip on her wrist, until the pressure became slightly uncomfortable. "You don't still want to touch it? See what it's made of? Satisfy that damned curiosity of yours?"

Christine wanted to cry now. She could taste it in the back of her throat. Butcrying would be a mistake. He would take it as an admission of guilt, and that would make her a liar in his eyes. _He has to trust me. He's like this for a reason._ There was a choice to be made here. She could tell him that she was no longer curious, and swear never to touch the stupid mask again, or she could be honest and tell him that she _was_ still curious and deal with his reaction as it came. He was watching her with those furious black eyes. The choice had to be made soon.

"I do. I'm still curious, but I will put my hand in my lap. Erik, you are frightening me right now, and you are almost hurting me." Her voice was unsteady. She forced herself to keep eye-contact with him, hoping he would come to his senses soon.

The grip on her wrist instantly relaxed, but he did not let go. Instead, he gently, but inexorably, pulled her hand to his face, placing her palm on the cheek of his mask. She felt the perfectly soft leather under her trembling hand. Under the leather, she felt unnatural hardness and a sharp angle. It was easier to imagine a block of wood beneath the leather than a human face. Again, the uncomfortable thought resurfaced, drowning her fear. _It _is_ bad. Really bad. Can I handle that? Can I cope with his temper? Am I strong enough for this?_

When she didn't flinch, and her expression held only an apologetic sadness, the rage flowed out of Erik as though someone had pulled a plug. The only thing she could see in his eyes now was pain, both physical and emotional. It hurt to have the full weight of both their hands on his face; the remaining skin was not enough to protect the damaged bone structure adequately. He slid her hand over his cheek and then returned it to her lap before letting go. He turned away from her, embarrassed and uncomfortable. There were only about ten minutes to go before her stop.

He heard her voice, subdued and soft. "I'm sorry."

They rode the rest of the way in silence.


	22. Coffee

**Coffee**

When the bus pulled up to her stop, Erik handed up her bag, but didn't rise. Christine signaled to the bus driver so that he would wait for her to struggle down the aisle. He nodded at her, willing to wait because there weren't many people left on the bus this time of night. When she didn't walk away, Erik hesitantly looked up at her.

"Goodnight, Christine."

"You don't want coffee?"

"I didn't think you'd still want me to come, after the way I've behaved." Even as he spoke, he was rising from his seat, getting ready to disembark with her.

"Well, I do. So come on before the driver pulls away." Confident that he would be right behind her, Christine banged and bumped her way down the aisle.

When they stood on the sidewalk, the awkwardness between them was as palpable as when they first met. Neither knew what to do or say, but it felt like someone had to say something.

"I apologize for frightening you." Erik spoke to the sidewalk, unable to meet her eyes. "I thought…It seemed like…"

"Like I was trying to hurt you. I know. I should never have reached for your face without your permission, and I'm sorry." She couldn't look him in the face, either. "My curiosity does over-rule my sense sometimes. There's a short walk from here to my apartments. We better get going." She picked up her cello and began to trudge down the sidewalk.

In a few long strides, Erik caught up with her. "I'd never hurt you, Christine, believe me. I get angry sometimes, but I'd never…do that."

Christine pulled up short and set her cello down. Erik stopped beside her, wondering why she was stopping in the middle of sidewalk. The sun had set; the streetlights lit her hair in a frizzy halo around her face.

"I do believe that, Erik. I have taken…I _am taking _a big chance being alone with you. I believe you wouldn't hurt me. But…when you put my hand on your face, it hurt _you_, didn't it." She wasn't asking; she was making a statement, expecting him to confirm her suspicions.

Erik was caught off guard by her perceptiveness. For a moment, he couldn't think how to respond. "It…no…I mean…a little, but that doesn't matter. You wanted to know."

"If I'd known that it would hurt you, I would never have done it. Never." Now a tear did escape and roll slowly over her round cheek.

"Oh, no. Nono. Christine, don't cry. It only hurts if there's too much pressure on it. Really. It was my fault that it hurt. I wasn't careful. It's fine, now." Erik couldn't stand the sight of that gleaming tear-track.

Christine stepped towards him. He took a small, shuffling step backwards. She did not retreat, but reached forward and pulled him into her arms in a tight hug. Her cheek was flat against his chest; she could hear his heart beating hard and fast. After a moment, she felt his arms encircle her, tentatively at first, and then she was wrapped in a warm, strong embrace. They stayed that way for several minutes, neither one wanting to be the first to let go.

"I don't want to hurt you, Erik. Don't ever let me hurt you." Christine could no longer hold back the tears. The whole day had overwhelmed her. She didn't sob, but cried silently for a few seconds before pulling away. He let her go reluctantly.

"I'll tell you a secret, if you'll stop crying."

Christine laughed a little and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Ok. I've stopped. What's your secret?"

"I've never held a woman like that before." He was smiling a tiny smile, glancing at her briefly, and then looking away.

"Really?"

"Really. No woman ever let me get that close to her."

"Their loss. Oh, crud. Look at the time. It's nine-thirty. We have to hurry. Meg's going to call me at ten, and I left my phone at home."

They gathered up everything and hustled along. Erik noticed that she lived in a relatively run-down neighborhood. He imagined taking her home to his apartment and shivered with pleasure at the thought. She'd love his collection of instruments – he could teach her to play anything she wanted.

She lived on the second floor. At the first step, he took the cello from her and jogged the rest of the way up before she could protest. She ran up the stairs after him, laughing, and put her key in the lock. The door was already unlocked, but she distinctly remembered turning the key in the deadbolt when she left home that morning. She looked at Erik, suddenly wary. "There's someone in there, or there was. I _know_ I locked that door this morning."

Erik handed the instruments to her and nudged her away from the door, putting himself between her and danger. He turned the doorknob and opened the door in one fluid motion, ready to clobber anything that came at him. What he saw was a tall, lean, red-headed woman sitting on a faded navy-blue papasan, eating brownies and watching a movie on a tiny television. When she heard the door open, she turned her head and then leapt from her seat.

"Where's Christine and what the _HELL _are you doing in her apartment!" she shrieked. Looking around, she grabbed the closest thing to her – Christine's music rack – and began to advance on Erik.

"Ah. You must be Meg. Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, as he ducked her first swing.

"Meg! Jesus! Stop it!" Christine pushed her way into the apartment, her cello in one hand and Erik's violin in the other. "I'm right here."

Seeing Christine alive and apparently unharmed, Meg dropped the music rack. She ran across the small room, grabbed her friend in a fierce hug, and then punched her viciously on the arm.

"Ow!"

"What are you thinking? You said you wouldn't go anywhere alone with him, and now you've brought him back to your apartment? Didn't we have an agreement?" Meg was shaking her finger furiously. Erik stood back, not wanting to interfere with the very strange scene unfolding before him.

Christine rubbed her bruised arm and smiled ruefully. "Our agreement was that you would _call me_ at ten, not break into my apartment and eat all my brownies!"

"I didn't break in. You gave me your spare key when you moved in, just in case you lost yours. Remember? And look. There are at least one… two…three brownies left. It's a good thing I did come over, or else you would be alone with _him._"

"I _intended_ to be alone with him, thank you very much. We were going to have a lovely cup of coffee and a long chat. Erik has proven himself to be quite honorable, unlike _some_ sneaky people I could name. He came in ahead of me because he was trying to protect me from the red-headed bandit!" Christine was half joking, half scolding.

"Alright, then. We can certainly sit down and have a lovely coffee and a lovely chat. I need to get to know this guy, anyway, if he's going to be dating my best friend."

"'_This guy'_ is honored to make your acquaintance. But my name is Erik. I'd say pleased to meet you, but I don't want any more metal objects swung at my head."

Meg had the goodness to look a little shamefaced. "It's, uh, nice to meet you, Erik. Look, you guys sit down. I'll go make the coffee. Caf or De? Ah, never mind. Leaded for everyone. "

Christine sat on the papasan and patted the space beside her. Erik sat down and looked around the tiny, drab apartment. He wanted to hug her again, but with Meg in the house, it just didn't seem wise. Christine smiled and shrugged. "Mother Meg's in the house. What can I say? She's usually not this violent, I swear. She just a little…worried."

"And to think I was worried I'd frightened you." He shook his head and looked at the woman bustling in the galley kitchen. "If this is 'worried', I'd hate to see her angry."

"Yes. Yes you would." Since Erik was clearly not going to do it himself, Christine put an arm around his waist. "I've seen her make grown men cry."


	23. A Duet Has Two Parts

**A/N: I will likely not be posting more than once every other day or so until the middle of next week. I have three major assignments due in my Epidemiology and Health Policy classes (grad school) and will be hellbent on finishing them. Of course, once that's over, I will be back stronger than ever...theoretically. Thank you for all the marvelous reviews. You guys make my life a little shinier. **

**A Duet Has Two Parts**

Erik sat stiffly, awkwardly aware of Christine's arm around his waist. He looked down at her to see that she was watching the movie on the television. What was he supposed to do? He remembered the beautiful bohemian couple from earlier in the week. Would Christine allow him to put his arm around her shoulders? She had hugged him; maybe she wouldn't mind. He slowly, furtively draped his arm lightly on her shoulders and waited for her to shrug him away. Instead, she reached up, dragged her hair from under his arm, and smiled a little. Apparently, this was allowed.

Meg watched surreptitiously from the kitchen, noting how nervous the man was. He seemed afraid to touch Christine, though she was clearly happy to have him near. He sat rigidly instead of settling back comfortably into the papasan like any other person would have done. Meg was beginning to believe Christine's stories about Erik. She poured three mugs full of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee and put them on a tray, along with three spoons, a bottle of toffee flavored creamer, and Christine's sugar bowl. It was time to go interrogate the newcomer.

Christine shoved a pile of sheet music off the coffee table that doubled as her dinner table and personal workspace. Meg set the tray down, pulled up the computer chair across from the couple, and proceeded to prepare her coffee the way she liked it; almost white with cream and cloyingly sweet with sugar. Christine turned to Erik, who sat as though afraid to move.

"You can have a cup of coffee, you know. That's why Meg made it."

He nodded solemnly, took a cup, and added a drip of cream. Christine nodded, satisfied, and prepared her own cup. The three sat, stirring and sipping their coffee, aware of the awkwardness in the room, but unsure of how to end it.

"So. What were you kids off doing today?" Meg hated uncomfortable silences.

"We had a picnic in the park. Sandwiches and brownies – much like the ones you were eating when we came home." Christine smiled up at Erik and put her hand reassuringly over his hand on her shoulder. "Then we put on a concert."

"Wonder of wonders. You actually did play. Did people stop and listen?" Meg already knew the answer. If Christine played, people stopped.

"A few." Christine responded nonchalantly.

Meg lifted one disbelieving eyebrow.

"Hundred. A few hundred." Christine corrected herself. "It was a perfect day for a little music in the park."

"Does _he _know that you don't perform?" Meg asked, nodding towards Erik.

Christine stared down into her cup. Erik likewise found great interest in his own.

Meg sighed. It was like talking to a stone wall. "Christine hasn't performed in well over a year. She swore off performing entirely – until you came along. She tells me you don't perform either. Which is a shame, because she _also_ says that you are better than she is."

"I am not." Erik spoke firmly and quietly. "Christine understates her ability."

"That's the truth." Meg agreed, repressing a triumphant smile. She'd made him speak. "What did you two play? Not that I expect to know it..."

"We played that piece I was obsessed with last November. Remember? You said if I played it in your presence one more time, you'd hide my cello strings."

"Oh. That. It never really did sound like anything to me." Meg shrugged.

"That's because you only heard half of it. Duets have two parts – neither half sounds right without the other." Christine felt Erik's arm tighten briefly around her shoulders. She continued, hoping that he realized that she was talking as much to him as to Meg. "Neither part sounds right without the other. Separate them and you just have strange noise. Shall we show her?"

"I don't think we have time to play the entire piece. You need to sleep and I have to go soon." Erik didn't have anything in particular he needed to do; he was just beginning to feel an overwhelming need to be back in the safety of his own apartment.

"We'll just give her a sample. Moderato?" She took her arm from his waist and reached for her cello case. Meg heard him sigh when they broke contact, but he willingly took his violin in hand. Christine shuffled Meg off the computer chair, it being the only seat in the room tall enough for Christine to play her instrument comfortably. Erik retained the papasan. Meg contented herself with a seat on the floor.

The movement was less than ten minutes long, but in that short time Meg finally came to understand –and accept - why Christine was willing to trust this weird masked man from the internet. The two were perfect compliments to one another. She was used to seeing Christine play, but this was the first time she had actually noticed the transformation from girl to virtuoso. It was mirrored by Erik's transformation from a tense, shadowy, masked man to a thing of grace and beauty. Meg felt an instant of jealousy, knowing that she could never reach Christine in that way, put that dreamy, unfocused smile on her face.

When the sample was done, Erik stood and bowed, first to Meg and then to Christine. "Goodnight, the coffee was delicious." He packed up his violin and was on his way out the door when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Christine stood there with a little slip of paper in her hand.

"This is my phone number. I can't believe I haven't thought to give it to you before now."

Erik folded the little slip of paper carefully and stowed it in his wallet. He turned to go, but was stopped by that gentle touch again. When he turned this time, he found himself in her embrace for the second time that evening. She let goreluctantly, and there was no need for words. He simply smiled, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, and left.


	24. I Didn't Want To

**I Didn't Want To**

After Erik left, Christine turned to Meg. Her eyes still held a bit of the day's dreaminess, but it was rapidly fading. Meg pretended to be oblivious to Christine's changing mood.

"He's certainly a talkative one, isn't he?" The jovial tone in her voice sounded forced.

"You shouldn't have come here tonight without an invitation. He didn't talk because you were here," said Christine, snappishly.

"Come on, Chris. Don't be mad at me. I was just looking out for you."

"Maybe you look out for me too much." Christine had curled up on the papasan, her eyes dark and reflective.

Meg knew that look. Christine might be annoyed about Meg's unexpected presence, but that wasn't the root of her dark mood. Best-friend duties required that she get to the bottom of the problem as quickly as possible.

"Maybe I do. What happened, Miss Chris? '_You cain't hide your lyin' eyes_' as the song says. Something's got you down. Tell Meg." Meg sat down on the edge of the papasan and rubbed the arm she'd punched earlier.

"If I tell you, you can't get angry." Christine's voice betrayed her embarrassment over what she was about to relay.

"Now, you know my temper. I can't promise not to get mad." Meg saw Christine start to close down and amended the statement. "But I'll try my best."

"It happened on the bus. I went to touch his mask - don't ask me why, it was a stupid, thoughtless thing for me to do. He grabbed my arm so fast I didn't even see him move."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No. But he could have; if I'd been anyone else, I think he would have. I could see it in his eyes. He was furious." Christine felt more ashamed of herself than ever at the recounting of the story. "He got mad because he thought I was trying to take his mask off. And that's why I feel so bad."

"Because you tried to take his mask off?" Meg was feeling a bit confused now

"No!" Christine hid her face in her hands and spoke from between her palms. "No. Because I _didn't_ want to take it off. You have to understand: I could feel his face under the leather – he put my hand on the mask, made me touch it. I felt his face, just the outline of it, and it scared me."

Meg bit her lip, for once at a complete loss for words. This was not what she had expected to hear. If Erik had hurt Christine, she would happily have hunted him down and beat him senseless, but this was something entirely different. Christine continued, since there was no response from Meg other than the rhythmic arm rubbing.

"He made me touch him, and all I could think was how much I wanted to jerk my hand back. I...I'm falling in love with him, Meg. Not just a crush. Really, deeply in love. So shouldn't I want to see his face? Shouldn't I want to look and then tell him it's ok - no matter what he looks like? What's the matter with me?" Christine looked imploringly at Meg, wanting some kind of answer, some sort of reassurance.

Meg groped for words of wisdom, even if they were total B.S., that might soothe her friend. "I don't think there's anything wrong with you, hun. It's just...strange...and you only just met him in person today. Maybe it's something that will fade with time." Hope glimmered faintly in Christine's eyes, so Meg continued, hoping she wasn't talking pure nonsense. "Just let him guide you. Maybe there'll come a time when he wants you to see, and maybe when that time comes you'll be able to handle it. I'm sure you will. You've never been one to judge by appearances. You'll do fine, when the time comes. If it comes."

"God, I hope so. I don't think he's ever had anything but pain his whole life. I don't want to be one more scar." She really didn't.

"Now, don't jump down my throat here, but have you ever thought that maybe you should talk to him about this?"

Christine's incredulous stare answered that question quickly enough. "How? How do you propose I go about that? '_Hey, Erik? I'm falling in love with you, but I'm scared of your face.' _Yeah. That'd go over really well."

"He might appreciate your honesty."

"He might disappear down a dark hole and never talk to me again." Christine slumped back in her seat and stared at the ceiling. "Why couldn't I fall in love with some normal guy?"

"You never seem to take to them. Poor Raoul never did understand what went wrong. And let's not even discuss..."

"Yeah. Let's not." Christine looked exhausted. Her tear-reddened eyes were underlined by dark circles.

"Go to bed, Miss Chris. Everything feels easier the morning after." Meg pulled Christine up by both hands and gave her a gentle push in the direction of her bed. "Go on. I'll let myself out and lock the door." She winked. "I have a key, you know."


	25. The Dating Game

**The Dating Game?**

A week passed, and everything seemed to have slipped back into its normal pattern. Christine worked during the day and met Erik online every evening at four. Since the performance in the park, there had been a marked change in his demeanor. He was happier, more relaxed. His conversations with Christine flowed more naturally; even his violin seemed to speak in a brighter voice.

Christine, on the other hand, was unable to shake her worries over her own inadequacy. Every time Erik turned on his webcam, she was reminded of his pain and her fears. For once she managed to hide her feelings. If Erik sensed any discord, he did not mention it. It may have been that he was distracted by the unfolding of her vocal talent. Her voice lessons were progressing rapidly; she was beginning to sound like a "real" singer.

"It's amazing, Christine, how far you've come in such a short time." His compliments were few, but always sincere.

"I have the best teacher."

"You've got _some_thing," he joked somewhat senselessly.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"It's been a week since we went to the park."

"That's true..."

"And you haven't called me."

Erik blinked. "We talk everyday, with streaming video. Why would I call you?"

"Maybe...to ask me out?" She was beginning to feel a bit ridiculous.

"To tell you the truth, it had not occurred to me. There aren't a lot of places I'd feel comfortable going, and the weather's been too wet to go to the park." Erik also began to feel ridiculous. Of course she wanted to be asked out. That's how dating was supposed to go. "Do you have a day off soon?"

"The day after tomorrow, and it can't come soon enough." That was true. Since their smashing success at the park, Christine had become dissatisfied with her work-a-day job at the coffee shop.

"Well, if you swear to me that you will not bring your lovely red-headed friend along, it might be nice if you would come here for a visit. I have a collection of musical instruments that you'd enjoy playing, and there's more room here than at your place."

"Great. What time? And what's your apartment number? I know where The Park at Northgate is."

Hardly believing he was giving out the information, Erik rattled off, "5291 D. If you think you could come by noon, I will cook something for lunch."

"That sounds wonderful. If you can cook, that is," Christine teased.

"I can. Bring your flute, if you would. It doesn't get enough play."

"Absolutely. It's a lot easier to carry on the bus, let me tell you."

Erik laughed his low, pleasant chuckle. Christine grinned into the camera. As rare as it was, it had quickly become one of her favorite sounds.

"Seriously. Promise me you will not bring Meg along. It was very nice to meet her but I..."

"...won't say a word if she's there," Christine finished for him. "I swear I will not bring her with me. And Erik, don't fib."

"Fib?"

"It wasn't 'nice' for you to meet her. She attacked you with a music stand, and then you spent the rest of the night trying to pretend she wasn't there."

"You've found me out. She's a fine young woman, I'm sure, but I prefer to be alone with you." After the words were already out of his mouth, Erik realized the connotations they could carry. _Damn, _he thought_, smooth move. Way to make her trust you. Idiot._

Christine bit her lip and blushed. "I'll see you then. Tomorrow, I've promised to go over to Meg's and hang out for awhile, so I won't be online. She says she's been missing me."

"So you've decided it's my turn to miss you instead?" Erik's tone was unreadable. Christine couldn't tell if he was teasing or serious.

"I suppose you'll have to do without me for one afternoon. I know it'll be hard..."

"Torture."

"But you'll have me live and in person on Monday, so you may survive." Christine turned off her monitor as a signal that she was logging off, and to keep him from seeing her face when she said, "Besides, I may have something to tell you on Monday. Goodnight!"

"What...?" Erik said, but she was gone. He looked to his clock. It was nearly eleven at night. Nadir would not enjoy a call at this time. Erik stood and stretched, looking around the living room of his apartment. It was a spacious two-bedroom with a porch overlooking the grounds. Erik had decorated after his own preferences: black curtains hung in the windows, one entire wall was composed of a shelf of books. There was soundproofing on the walls, installed with the consent of the manager after several noise complaints and some bribery. His computer was nestled in one corner, and a stand of basic recording equipment filled the other. An easy chair sat near the heavily curtained window. Erik breathed a sigh of relief; there were two chairs in the room. She'd have a comfortable place to sit. Still, this room could definitely stand to be more inviting.

In the kitchen there was only one barstool pulled up to a little round table. Where would he serve dinner? He wanted to amaze her with his culinary skills, but how impressive would rabbit in white wine sauce be if she had to eat it balancing on a barstool while he stood by, watching, with no place to sit? No. He'd have to buy a kitchen table with two chairs.

The rest of his apartment met with his approval, and he was sure it would meet with hers. She wouldn't be going in his bedroom, so _that _mess didn't matter; he would just shut the door. The music room was decorated with instruments. There were guitars from bass to acoustic, a cello he thought she'd admire, a viola, a spinet piano, a dulcimer, and a mandolin, among others. He could play them all with varying skill, but well enough to teach any of them.

Erik took stock of his bathroom, and discovered it needed some work. His personal effects were strewn everywhere, along with the medications his applied to his face to keep the tightly stretched, damaged skin as healthy as possible, his TENS unit, and the pain medication he took for times when pain from damaged nerves became more than he could handle. It would not do to have her see those things. He wanted nothing to remind her of that subject. Erik sighed and decided to bed down for the night. He would have to spend Sunday getting things ready for her visit – including a trip into town. Erik shuddered. The things he was willing to do for her astounded him.

Before leaving the house Sunday after a restless night's tossing and turning, Erik called Nadir. Unlike last time, Nadir answered on the second ring.

"Erik! Hello! I hardly expected a call so soon. Not twice in the last two years, and then two in a month."

"Hello, Nadir. I need some advice."

"I'm doing very well, thank you, and yourself?"

"I'm in love."

"Wonderful! Is this the same girl from before? The musician?"

"Yes. We've met." Erik couldn't keep the nervous smile from his voice.

"In person? Not just on the net?"

"Yes. We went to the park and played Schulhoff together."

There was silence from the other end of the line. Erik tried to imagine Nadir's expression, and could not. He allowed his old teacher to mull that revelation over for a few minutes. Finally, Nadir spoke.

"This girl got you to go out in public and perform? You _are_ in love. And she doesn't mind..."

"The mask? Honestly, she was curious about it and tried to touch it. But no. She doesn't seem to mind it. That's not what I need advice about, though."

"She tried to touch it? What did you do?"

"I let her. Actually, I made her. But Nadir, _that_ _is not what I need advice about! _" Erik was beginning to lose patience.

"Alright there. Hold your temper. Is there something more serious, my boy?"

"She's coming over tomorrow. For lunch. I'm cooking rabbit. I'm about to go out and buy a table and chairs. Is there anything else I should do?"

"Flowers. Candles. Music. Just a few suggestions from an old man who has had nothing to do with women for several years."

"I don't know if Christine will go for those things. She's different from other women, I think."

"Almost all women '_go'_ for those things. It certainly can't hurt. Does she love you?"

"She can't."

"Did she say so?"

"No, Nadir." The pain that had been absent from Erik's voice came back in a rush. "I just know so. Even if she thinks she does, she can't."

"That's dangerous, you know, telling a woman what she does or doesn't feel..."

"Her face is so expressive." Erik said, and Nadir worked to follow the sudden subject-change. "I almost always know what she's feeling. I know every little twitch of her lips, every movement of her eyebrow. When she smiles, her eyes squint, and when she laughs, her round cheeks turn apple-red. When she's embarrassed or feeling a little shy, she chews her lower lip. When she gets annoyed, the skin between her eyebrows wrinkles, and her nostrils flare."

"That's very observant, Erik, but I don't..."

"I haven't even got nostrils – thank goodness the doctors replaced them enough for me to sing. She guesses my mood from my voice. All she has to go by is a blank, black mask. She hasn't the least idea what's hidden underneath. And until she does, she can't love me, because she doesn't know me. If she ever tells me she loves me, I want her to be able to say it to my face."

Nadir found himself massaging the bridge of his nose and reaching for his patience. "I don't think that not seeing your face necessarily means she doesn't love you."

"It means that _if_ she loves anything, it's what she imagines me to be. When she can say it to my face, I'll believe it." Erik paused, waiting for Nadir to argue. When he didn't, Erik continued, "But even you think that's too much to ask. So, she can't love me. Do you understand?"

"I follow you, even if I don't agree. Erik, would you ever let her see it? Or have you come up with a novel way to make yourself miserable..."

"I don't know. But for now, I'll just give her...what...flowers, music, and candles? And hope I make her happy."

"My real advice is the same as it was last time. Tell her the truth. And for the love of all that's good, don't tell her what she feels. Just let her feel it."

"Thank you, Nadir."

"You're very welcome, Erik, though I doubt you'll take a word I've said to heart."

"Of course I will. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Erik hung up, grabbed his sweatshirt, and headed out for flowers, candles, a table, and chairs.


	26. Perfect

**Perfect **

Christine stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself. Since they'd labeled it as such, this was their first official "date". She'd spent two hours on the current product, and was feeling pretty pleased with herself. Her normally frizzy hair was full of 'product', smooth as glass, and pinned in a French braid with little curls escaping at the sides. . She had washed with a perfumed soap, spritzed with a light body spray, and smelled delicious to herself. She'd applied a rose shaded lip balm, a light brush of rouge, and even some mascara and eyeliner. She was wearing a fitted lavender blouse and a full black skirt that complimented her figure – the last time she'd worn this outfit was when Meg muscled her into performing for her boyfriend's family. Sensibly low-heeled black Maryjane shoes completed the look. As she left the apartment she realized that she was wearing no jewelry. _Crud, _she thought. But it was too late to go back; she didn't want to risk missing her bus.

As Christine stood outside the door to Erik's apartment, checking her makeup one last time, one of Erik's neighbors came out of her apartment to get her newspaper. When the older lady spotted Christine about to knock on Erik's door, she looked alarmed.

"Oh, honey, whatever you're selling, he doesn't want any. Save yourself some trouble and just leave that one alone." The woman's voice sounded friendly.

"I'm sorry?" It was startling to be accosted by a stranger trying to warn her away from her friend.

"That man is one of the strangest, surliest people I've ever seen move into this building, and I've been here since it was put up. If you knock on his door, don't expect a warm welcome. The only people he answers the door to are deliverymen. He almost never leaves."

"I think he'll see me..." Christine knocked on the door, amused by the chagrin on the woman's face.

After a moment, the door opened. Erik's eyes swept her from head to toe and a smile bloomed on his face. She blushed and looked down – straight into the bouquet of roses and baby's breath he pressed into her hand. She inhaled the sweet aroma and looked up to Erik, her eyes shining.

"Oh Erik...they're gorgeous. Thank you!" She cut her eyes to the right, taking in the amazed expression on the old woman's face with satisfaction. She smiled sweetly and allowed Erik to escort her into his apartment. It was softly lit by numerous candles, Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_ played softly from a surround-sound system, and a mouth-watering smell permeated the air. Erik stood quietly to one side, taking in her reaction. He had not spoken a word; he was too nervous. He hoped it lent an air of romance, or mystery, or whatever attracted women to men.

"You look wonderful tonight." The compliment was sincere. Erik was wear black dress pants with a burgundy silk shirt that did much to hide his terrible thinness.

"Thank you." He kicked himself. He should have complimented her first, at the door. "You are a vision."

He followed her as she walked past him into the kitchen, searching for something.

"What do you need?"

"A vase? These will wilt if we don't put them in water, and I'd like to take them home with me."

Erik pulled a wine carafe from a shelf, filled it with water and watched as she carefully arranged the flowers in it.

"I have to ask: What _is _that wonderful smell?"

"Our lunch. Let it be a surprise. It'll be done in another 15 minutes." He felt awkward, standing there with her in his kitchen. "Would you like to see the music room while we wait?"

"Sure."

Christine was suitably impressed with the array of instruments. She went from one to the next, touching them, asking the stories behind each, testing their tone and tuning.

"They're all in tune. How do you manage that?"

"I spend a lot of time in here."

"That's what the old lady in the hall said." Christine remarked offhandedly. "You don't seem to have made yourself very popular with your neighbors."

"I told you I don't get on with people very well." He lifted the mandolin and played a quick Irish folksong. "Mary pokes her nose where it doesn't belong with amazing regularity."

"And I repeat: you seem to "get on" with me just fine."

Erik stared studiously at the inlays on the cello. "And _I _repeat: you are different from anyone I've ever known. Thank goodness for that. Here. Test this out and see how you like its sound. It has a completely different personality from yours. I'm going to see how lunch is coming along."

Christine played the exquisitely crafted instrument until Erik called out that lunch was served. She put down the beautiful bow reluctantly. Though her cello was dear to her heart, it was nowhere close to this piece of art in quality. Erik had somehow amassed a collection of instruments that would be the envy of any professional orchestra.

"I hope you enjoy this. It's the first time I've tried the recipe. It looked too good not to give it a shot." Erik pulled out her chair, poured a serving of wine into her glass and waited until she was comfortable before taking his own seat.

Christine took the first bite and closed her eyes. _Let's add gourmet chef to the list of Amazing Things Erik Can Do. _ She chewed slowly, in culinary ecstasy. "Erik, you are incredible. I can make a great grilled cheese, but that about covers the extent of my cooking skills."

"I'm glad you like it." Inwardly, Erik was utterly unimpressed with his ability to entertain his guest. What had happened to the witty repartee that flowed effortlessly over the microphone? "So. Have I done well? Flowers? Music? Candles?"

Christine laughed; the bell-like sound was absorbed quickly by the soundproofing. "Oh my. Is that why you've been so quiet? You're worried that I might not like what you've done here? Erik... everything is wonderful...perfect. I've never had a man go through this much trouble to make me happy. And you have. Made me happy, that is."

Erik relaxed visibly. The tension fell out of his shoulders and his posture lost its rigidity. "I was worried. I didn't know if it would please you. You know, I've never really known what to think of Vivaldi. Some of his work moves me deeply, but much of it strikes me as too treacly-sweet. It's almost as though he were reaching for the emotion he _thought_ his audience expected and abandoned authentic feeling."

"I don't mind a little sweetness, sometimes. But you're right. His music does reach. It's like a lot of modern artists, I think. You have to listen to the B-sides of their albums to find the good stuff."

From there, the conversation flowed as lightly and easily as it normally did during their online conversations. They talked about all the composers they could think of who seemed to reach for and miss the mark emotionally with their music. From there, they discussed the formulaic essence of Motown and agreed that despite that, they both loved Motown.

When lunch was done, Christine popped up from the table and ran to her purse. "I brought something that I thought might be fun tonight." Christine pulled out the CD she had grabbed as a last second thought on her way out the door. She passed it to Erik, who scanned the title dubiously.

"Strauss's waltzes?"

"Yes." Christine was biting her lip and toeing the ground lightly. "I thought it might be nice to dance a bit. The only dance I know is the waltz."

"I can't dance at all." _And a pity, too. _He imagined holding her close, moving smoothly around the room...

"Oh! It's easy. Let me teach you. It's only fair. Please?"

There was no way Erik could say no. He took the CD and started it. The _Beautiful Blue Danube _filled the apartment with its dulcet tones. Christine stood close to Erik and took his hands.

"Now, you put one of your hands here. Your other hand holds mine up here. It's always going to be in three-quarters time. Let's start with the most basic step. We move in a box-pattern. Traditionally you're supposed to lead, but since I'm teaching, I'll lead at first." Patiently, Christine taught Erik the basics of waltzing, while he admired the way the candlelight sparkled in her clear hazel eyes and the softness of her hand in his. By the time the _Emperor Waltz _ended, Erik was moving with ease. Christine relaxed and let him lead, enjoying his strength and the fluidity of movement. Her mental list grew. _Singing_..._Stringed instruments...Cooking...Dancing... _She sighed happily and moved closer to him, breaking her 'dance space'.

Erik felt her body slide against his and drew in a slow, deep breath. He slid his hand along her arm to her shoulder blade, reveling in her soft skin; she wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest, immersing herself in the wonderfully safe feeling of his embrace. Their movement lost its pattern and became a slow rhythmic swaying. It was hypnotic for Erik; he was lost in her touch, her nearness, her trust. In that gentle trance, he remembered something.

"You said you might have something to tell me tonight. Do you remember what it was?"


	27. By Candlelight

**A/N:This is the last one until I have all my work done. I'll be checking and responding to reviews, but if you see me post a chapter before 9pm on the 15th, please scold me soundly.**

**By Candlelight**

"You said you might have something to tell me tonight. Do you remember what it was?"

She nodded against his chest, reluctant to speak. This moment was perfect; she had little inclination to ruin it. Erik waited several seconds before he realized that she was not going to answer further.

"What was it?"

"I wanted to see how tonight felt, first. And I suppose it's more of a question than something I want to tell you..." Christine stopped their slow side-to-side motion and met his eyes. Their usual hard gleam was gone, in its place was same soft expression he wore when he played his violin.

"Ask me."

"If I were to try to kiss you, would you let me?"

If the ceiling had suddenly fallen in on his head, Erik could not have been more stunned. His mouth began making words without help from his brain. "You...a kiss...I...here?" he stammered. She was nodding, beginning to look abashed. He wrenched back control of his mouth and said, "You don't want to kiss me, Christine. Do you?" Nadir's words came back to him, too late. "_It's dangerous to tell a woman how she feels..."_

"Actually, yes, I do."

"But...you don't know what you'd be kissing. So, no, I wouldn't let you."

"Only because of that?" Christine gestured at his mask. "Not because you...don't want to?"

"Christine, I'd love to kiss you, but it wouldn't be fair to you."

"What feels unfair is that you won't. Your stupid mask is the only thing between us and..." Christine literally bit her tongue. She knew she'd gone too far, but that seemed to be status quo for her in this relationship.

Instead of becoming angry, as she expected, Erik took her hands gently in his. Apprehension and hope mixed in his eyes. "Between us and what, Christine?"

"Tonight? Between us and a kiss. Between you and me. What happened to your face, Erik? Were you born that way? Were you burned?" As she asked, she pulled his hands back around her waist and slipped her arms around his.

This was the moment Nadir had been talking about. Christine was asking him for the truth. It was the perfect opportunity, if only he could make himself answer her. He drew her closer and began swaying to the music again, trying to find that comfortable, hypnotic place. She didn't pull away or resist, and after a while, he found the courage to speak. "When I was a baby they performed a minor operation to correct a little problem with my sinuses. There was an infection that damaged the skin. When they tried to correct that damage, my body rejected the skin graft. I guess that was where everything started."

"Started?"

"Yes. They tried over and over again to fix the damage, but every time they tried, they just made it worse. By the time they gave up..."

"How many times did they...try?" That was a gentler version of what Christine truly wanted to ask, which was, "_How many times did they cut you, Erik?"_

"I don't even remember anymore. More than twenty-five, less than a hundred? I was sixteen when they stopped. By the time they gave up, there was hardly anything left." This was going so much more smoothly than he'd imagined. She was still near, still holding him. She didn't look repulsed – not yet, at least. Nadir told him to tell her the truth. "They damaged the nerves and the bone, so anything more than a light touch hurts. But a very light touch doesn't hurt at all."

"Does...it hurt at other times?"

"Sometimes. It comes and goes. It's nothing I can't handle."

The music stopped, silence descended, but they continued in their slow dance.

"I can't imagine always having to wear a mask. It must be..." she trailed off, not knowing how to finish.

"Like you said earlier, it's always between me and, well, everything...everyone. I get a lot of stared and whispers when I go out. So I just don't go out."

"It sounds lonely."

"It was lonely."

Christine did not miss the importance of the word "was". Her arms tightened around him protectively. She felt him take a deep breath and become tense.

"Do you want to see? I'll warn you ahead of time that I am not being melodramatic when I say that it's monstrous. I can't stand to look at myself. It really is horrible. But if you want to see, I'll let you."

This was the moment they'd both dreaded. For Erik, it was the moment of love or loss. For Christine, it was the test of the love she thought she felt for this man.

"Why would you let me see?" Her voice was as tense as his body. She could not speak louder than a whisper. "Not just to appease my curiosity, I hope..."

"No. You told me to trust you, do you remember that? I think I do, now. I think I can."

"Will it frighten me?" The question felt cruel to ask, but she had to know what he thought. "What do you think will happen if I see?"

"I think it will frighten you. If you'd asked me this morning, before you arrived, I would have said that you'd scream, run from me, and never look back." _Tell her the truth...tell her the truth... _"But now...I think you may be frightened, but you might not run."

"If I am frightened by your face it will hurt your feelings," she stated flatly.

"Of course." He sighed. "But if you just didn't run...that alone would be a sort of magic."

"I'm already frightened," she admitted. "but I'm still here. What does it look like?"

Erik tried to think how best to describe the mess under the mask to her. "It's...ok...the skin is really all that's left in some places, stretched tight over the bone. In other places you can...this is really hard for me." His voice was caught in his throat; adrenaline coursed through his veins, making him shake. He forced himself to continue against the choking anxiety. "In some places, you can see the muscles, the veins. I don't...there isn't really a nose. It's bad, Christine, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She just nodded. "Do you want me to see you?"

"No. Yes. Both." He stopped, regrouped and tried to explain. "No, I don't want to lose the only...friend...I have. Yes, I want you to know. I'm dumb enough to hope that you might..." _care for me anyway _"...not run."

"I can't run if I'm sitting down." Christine pulled out of his grasp and took a seat on the edge of his computer chair.

"Are you sure about this?"

"No, but I'm as sure as I think I can be. What was your line? '_Before I lose my courage_.'"

Erik came and knelt in front of her. He reached back to undo the ties, but her hands stopped his.

"Let me, please. I'll be very gentle." She hoped that having some control over the situation might ease her reaction.

"Together?"

"Together." she murmured. "Don't let me hurt you."

"You will, but it's ok."

Christine untied the strings of his mask, then took the edges lightly in her fingers and slowly lowered it. He'd told her the truth – every detail. Her numb fingers dropped the light leather, but his were there to catch it. He forced himself to wait through her shock without covering himself.

Her hand rose to her mouth, muffling her voice. "Oh my god." Christine shut her eyes, squeezed them closed, then opened them again, bit by bit. Her stomach lurched, making her gag. His face was like a Hollywood styling of a mangled corpse.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. So sorry." He couldn't stop apologizing for the face that wasn't his fault.

She stood slowly and deliberately, and stepped away from him on legs that did not really want to support her weight. "I'm...going to the bathroom. When I come back..."

"I'll have the mask on. I promise."

"No. No. Don't. Have your violin out. And...be ready." As quickly as was possible on her treacherous legs, Christine hurried to the restroom leaving a very confused man kneeling in the agony of suspense on the floor behind her.

Once in the safety of the bathroom, Christine bent her head over the toilet, waiting for the nausea to pass. She willed herself not to throw up; the battle lasted several minutes. Once she was convinced that she'd won, Christine moved to the sink and splashed cold water on her face, not caring that it ruined her makeup. She had to go back in there and face him, and she must not run. Frantic thoughts crowded her mind. _Think of his music. Think of his cooking. Think of his dancing. That's still Erik in there. It's still him. I can handle this. I have to handle this. _She held these thoughts as she walked back into the living room. She saw that he was sitting in the computer chair, facing the wall, holding his violin. She opened her flute case and assembled the myriad little pieces.

Erik heard her come back to the room. He listened as she put her flute together. Moments later, her soft hand touched his hair, smoothing it. Tears flooded his eyes and threatened to escape. She hadn't run. She was touching him.

"Play something for me," she said, and though her voice trembled, she sounded sure. "Turn around, please. I need to see you play. I'll accompany you. It will help me remember"

He turned, his violin already under his chin, the bow already on the strings. Erik closed his eyes to avoid seeing her expression and felt the tears roll down his face. Letting her see him cry seemed a mere trifle now. He was playing the piece she'd written for him; she played his counterpoint. As it always did, the music changed him. Christine could make herself look at him again; it was still painful to see his face, but at least there was no more nausea. When the music ended, she set her flute on the computer table and waited for whatever came next. Setting his violin aside, Erik reached out for her blindly, not knowing what he expected her to do. His hand met hers. She took it and came to him, kneeling as he had knelt.

"You can open your eyes now."

He opened his eyes and made himself look into hers. She looked frightened. Her face was dead-white. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes. She was still here, though. Her hand was in his.

Wryly, he asked, "Do you still want that kiss?"

To his –and her – unending surprise, Christine closed her eyes and said, "Yes."

The kiss was a tiny thing, only a dry peck on the lips, but it thundered through both of them, shaking them to the core.


	28. And Then

**A/N: Yeah, yeah. I know what I said. BUT! I finished my Epidemiology homework AND my Annotated bibliography COMPLETE with 14 peer-reviewed resources AND I have started on the stupid EMR paper. I rewarded myself for finishing the first two by allowing myself to write this short follow-up chapter. It's the only thing I've allowed myself to write, which means I cut production by what...a sixth? **

**And Then**

Erik pulled back from the kiss feeling giddy and guilty. He searched her countenance for an indication of her feelings. Her eyes were still closed. He didn't blame her – if he had to look at himself, he'd be reluctant to open his eyes as well. Her color had returned; she was flushed to the point of looking feverish. Her brow was wrinkled in thought. While her eyes were closed, he wiped the tears from his face and quickly tied the mask back on. "Christine, it's safe to look. The mask is on."

She opened her eyes, but the thoughtful look remained. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" Erik felt her fingers tighten on his.

"I didn't do that well. I should have been able to look. I should have been able to stay..." Distress made her voice tight and rough.

Erik slid out of the chair and sat on the floor beside her. He put his arm around her shoulders and gently pulled her to lean against him. Having another person so close was a delicious feeling; it occurred to him that he could easily spend the rest of his life this way.

"Don't say that. Don't demean this."

"But Erik..."

"You don't even know what you've done, do you..." He picked up her hand, hesitating only a moment before kissing her fingertips. "How many people – men and women combined – do you think there are who have seen me without the mask on and come back to me with kindness?"

"I don't..."

"Not including you, there are two. My father and Nadir Khan, my music teacher. Just two, and they both have known me from infancy. And neither of them has ever touched me as you just did. Certainly neither of them kissed me. That was my first kiss, Christine. And this is my first date, with my first dance."

"But I had to leave the room. I couldn't stay." She pressed against him and pulled his arm tighter around her. He was forgiving her for her moment of weakness, and in so doing he was stealing what remained of her heart.

"Is there a mess in my bathroom?"

"Huh?" A moment later she realized what he meant. "No."

"I didn't think so. The first time I saw myself after the last surgery, I vomited. If you did not, you took it better than I did. You did very well. You were brave. Even the nurses used to look away when they changed the bandages." It was true. Some of the nurses had drawn lots to see who had to care for him.

"You wouldn't say it, but I know I hurt you – your feelings. I want to do better next time."

"You _want_ there to be a next time? Why?"

"It's you," she said, as though that explained everything.

"I don't know. I don't like scaring you, Christine." Candlelight flickered against the side of her face, illuminating her profile. Erik couldn't resist touching her cheek, then he realized he no longer had to resist touching her. She tilted her head towards his caress.

"I won't be frightened next time. That part is over." She put her hand on top of his in a vague reminder of his actions on the bus. "The worst is over. My secret is out, your secret is out... I think that now it's just a matter of coming to be used to it."

_The worst is over..._ Erik smiled. He had to smile; that simple statement was true for him in ways she couldn't begin to imagine. The worst _was_ over. It had taken many desperate years, but the worst finally was over. "That won't be as easy as you make it sound."

"No. I didn't think it would be. I won't lie to you. It will probably be a long time before I can look and be entirely comfortable with...with what I see."

"That's good."

"How can that _possibly_ be good?" Christine was beginning to wonder if Erik wasn't slightly unhinged.

He gently disentangled himself from her, moving around until he sat facing her. "Christine, you see yourself all wrong. It's a good thing I'm here to know what you really mean," he teased.

She sighed in exasperation. "And what do I really mean?"

He held up two fingers, folding them down as he spoke. "First, your reaction to seeing me: you think it means that you failed me somehow. But what it _really_ means is that you are willing to try to be my...friend...no matter how much it frightens you. Second, you say that it will be a long time before you are comfortable with what you see. Again, you think that means you're failing me, but it _really _means you intend to be around for a long time. You're not going to disappear. And that's better than good."

"But I can't get used to it if you wear that thing," Christine flicked her fingers at the mask, "all the time."

"True. But I think we've both had enough for tonight."

She was in the middle of nodding her agreement when her eyes popped wide. "Did you say _'tonight'?_" she asked.

"Yes."

A glance around revealed that the candles, which had been new and freshly lit upon her arrival, were burnt down to little more than flaming stubs in pools of hot paraffin. Some had gone out entirely. She looked at her watch. It was nearly seven-thirty. "Crud! I still have to get down to the laundromat and wash my work clothes for tomorrow, go grocery shopping, clean my place, get in some time on my cello, and somewhere in there I need to have dinner and sleep. Crapola!" As she spoke she stood up and grabbed her flute to disassemble it.

Erik almost groaned aloud in disappointment, but made his way to the kitchen. "I'll make a sandwich for you while you get your things together. Have dinner at the same time you ride the bus home; it will save you time."

"Thank you!" The flute was neatly stowed in its case. She hunted around for her CD case and purse. The time had passed so quickly!

Soon Erik stood at the door, a sandwich wrapped neatly in a paper towel in his hand. Christine took the sandwich from him and was about to dash out the door, but stopped herself. This was no way to end such an amazing date.

"Thank you so much for today. This was the most wonderful date I've ever had in my entire life." She pulled him into a hug, then stood on her tiptoes to give him a little kiss. "But Erik...never apologize to me for the way you look again. If you do, I will bring Meg over here with a music rack and take no responsibility for her ensuing actions." With that threat lingering in the air, she turned and jogged down the hall. The bus she needed to catch would be there in a few minutes – she would have to run all the way to the bus stop to catch it.

From the doorway, Erik watched her run down the hall, one hand resting on his tingling lips. When she was halfway to the stairwell door he said, "Goodnight Christine. I love you," in a quiet voice, not knowing whether or not he hoped she could hear him. She didn't slow or look back, so he assumed she had not heard.


	29. It's Changing Me

**It's Changing Me**

Christine sat on the bus, chewing slowly on her rabbit sandwich, deep in thought. She was sure he hadn't meant for her to hear those last three words. She had kept running because what he'd said earlier was absolutely true: they'd both had enough for one night. In fact, since Erik had first decided to appear on his webcam, things had become decidedly intense. It was like trying to swim in rough surf; she never felt as though she had completely caught her breath before the next wave came and knocked her flat. But like the ocean, she could look beyond the breakers and see cerulean peace. Getting there was the trick.

Christine sat staring at the washer, cell phone in hand. She wanted to call Meg and tell her about her day, but she had no idea how to explain what had transpired. With a mental shrug, Christine pressed "SEND."

"Hi, Christine."

"Hey, Meg. What are you up to?"

"Well, I _was_ heading to bed, but now I'm sitting here waiting for The Story with bated breath. So...get on with it. Dish the dirt, let no juicy detail be over looked, give me every sordid..."

"Jeez, Meg!" Christine giggled nervously. "Well, the first thing he did was give me flowers. He had candles everywhere. I'm pretty sure he disabled the smoke alarms in his apartment. There was even music playing in the background – Vivaldi."

"Flowers – check. Candlelight – check. Music – Check. He must have read the "Sweep Her Off Her Feet Manual" by Gotta Getsum."

"Don't make fun, Meg. He really put a lot of effort into it. He even made dinner – but get this: he made _rabbit in wine sauce._ It was possibly the most exquisitely delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth."

"Rabbit? He cooked up a _bunny_?" Meg listened to the washer sloshing on the other end of the line. "Seriously, though. He can cook? This guy suddenly went up many points in my esteem."

"Then we danced. I brought Strauss's waltzes..."

"Ugh."

"and taught him to waltz. We danced the entire CD. He is a wonderful dancer, now, too. Add that to musician and cook and I think you have the portrait of the perfect man."

"Awww. Well, I wouldn't say that. There are certain other things that have to make that list if we are going to say '_perfect.' _Ok. So you sniffed flowers, listened to music, ate, and danced. And?"

"And that's it." Christine turned the speaker phone function on while she transferred the wet clothes to the dryer."

"Liar." Meg shook her head at her friend's continuing denseness. Didn't the girl realize by now that after a score of years Meg could almost read her mind? "Dreadful liar. You didn't call me from a laundromat at nine-thirty at night to tell me you guys danced and ate Peter Rabbit. You would have told me that at shift tomorrow. So, I'm going to remain calm, assume you are still a virgin..."

"MEG!" Christine shrieked, snatching up the phone and turning off the speaker.

"And wait for you to tell me what else happened today. And if you are still recalcitrant, Miss Chris,I will come in late tomorrow morning and let the zombies eat you."

"Oh. You wouldn't."

"Oh, I _would._ I unclogged the milk steamer. I have a 'get out of jail free' card." Meg was absolutely smug, knowing she had won.

"I shouldn't tell you at all, just for threatening me like that," Christine sniffed.

Meg made no verbal response; she simply began making zombie-moaning noises.

"He kissed me."

"I _knew _it. Is he a good kisser? Wet or dry? Did he try to slip you tongue?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. It was a perfectly sweet peck on the lips."

The disappointment in Meg's voice made Christine bite her cheek to keep from giggling. "Then what's the fuss? Why the late-night call? No way. I still call you a liar, and a keeper of juicy secrets."

"You may be right." Christine looked at her reflection in the glass pane of the dryer door. "I saw his face." She tried to keep her tone even, but her voice broke slightly on the last word.

Ever aware, Meg realized she had to drop her joking demeanor. "That bad, huh? I'm sorry, girl. What's wrong with him?"

"Bad surgery when he was a kid. Botched operations. They destroyed his face, even some of the nerves and muscles." Christine heard her voice shake and then thicken with tears. She couldn't describe his face to Meg; no matter how wonderful she was, there were some things she just wouldn't understand.

"Can I ask an awful question?"

"Sure. You're good at that." Christine blew her nose noisily.

Meg ignored the snub. "Did he kiss you before or after you saw him?"

"After."

"Brave girl. Remember what I told you? I knew you'd be fine."

"That's what he said." Christine had regained her composure. Her laundry was nearly dry. "He called me brave and kind. I'm neither, Meg. I'm just in love. It's changing me into an entirely different person."

"You're a better woman than me, that's for sure. Jay has a big mole on his neck that I've been trying to convince him to get removed for the longest time...it's almost more than I can handle."

"Yeah, but he can't carry a tune in a bucket. And he called my cello a 'big fiddle.' So I guess it's each to her own, right?"

"Right."

"Ok. The clothes are done. I've got to get them folded and get some sleep. G'night Meg."

"G'night, girl."

Christine lay in bed that night, trying to clear her mind enough to fall asleep. There was so much talking left between the two of them, so many issues left to be ironed out. Once a week was not going to be enough in-person time anymore. She wanted to date, to go to concerts and movies, and to do all the normal things couples do. Instinctively, she knew that his mask would attract less attention if he went out with her, but she needed to convince him of that. She needed to introduce him to the world outside her apartment, and make him love it. She needed to make herself get used to his face. All of that paled in comparison to the difficulty of what she needed to do first; she needed to tell him that she loved him, and make him believe her.


	30. New Eyes

**A/N: Remind me not to ask you guys for punishments again - you are far too permissive! But the stupid paper is done. Here's the chapter with which I rewarded myself.**

**New Eyes**

The next day, Christine stood behind the counter watching the people who came into the shop to get coffee, and for the first time, she wondered about something other than how much tip they'd leave. As each face approached the counter, she couldn't help but wonder how that person would treat Erik, if they met on the street. She wondered about the secrets each person lived with and if they'd found someone they could trust with those secrets. Every face looked perfect to her. That morning she'd looked at her own reflection more forgivingly than ever before, noting the smoothness of her skin and the cuteness of her little upturned nose.

Meg teased Christine constantly about her date; there was so much excellent teasing material, from eating bunnies to waltzing to the _Beautiful Blue Danube. _She never once mentioned Erik's face. The truth was that she had a newfound respect for Christine. There were unseen depths below the surface and a strength that had been lacking before.

During lunch, Christine was bemoaning how few dates she'd had with Erik. She bitterly complained about how few places there were where he felt comfortable. Offhandedly, Meg suggested another picnic in the park.

"That seemed to work well last time. You glowed for days afterwards. Why don't you guys do that again? The weather will only be getting warmer from here on out."

"I was thinking the same thing. I think I could convince him to come out with me again." Christine was again chasing a cherry tomato around her plate, and paying no attention to Meg's expression. Meg was grateful for this, because if Christine _had _looked up, she would have seenthe scheming gleam in her best friend's eyes.

"Well," Meg said, wiping her mouth and pulling out her wallet, "I think that is precisely what you should do. Just tell me when you are going, so I can be ready with my phone to pick up all the gossip."

Christine laughed, speared the tomato, and got up to leave. "Don't worry – you are still privy to all my exciting dating info."

Meg just nodded. She was hatching a plan.

----- -- - ----- ----- ------- ------- ------ -- - ---- --- ------- ------ ------ ---- --- - - -- ------

That afternoon, Christine logged onto the web with mixed emotions. She was excited to be talking to Erik again, but hated that it was via the internet. He was so close! The bus ride from her apartment to his was less than fifteen minutes long. _I could be there now, sitting with him, playing music with him…_

minorchord:_ Edited any good articles today?_

AngelofMusic: _No. How was your day, Little Latte? I can't believe you're here._

minorchord:_ My day was fine. Why wouldn't I be here? _

AngelofMusic:_ I'm just glad you are. _

minorchord:_ Actually…to be honest…I really wish I weren't._

AngelofMusic_: Why not?_

minorchord:_ You're going to think I'm such a ditz…_

AngelofMusic:_ Never. _

minorchord:_ I'd rather be there with you. I miss you. _

AngelofMusic:_ That's a very sweet thing to say. _

minorchord:_ I'm not just saying it. _

AngelofMusic:_ You are welcome here anytime. Mi casa es su casa. _

minorchord:_ You mean I could come over right now?_

AngelofMusic:_ How long will it take you to get here?_

minorchord: _Half an hour or so_

AngelofMusic:_ I can't believe it. You don't know how strange this is for me. Are you actually_

_coming?_

**minorchord has logged out**

Erik stared at his computer screen. A silly smile that pulled painfully at his wrecked skin spread across his face. She was on her way. Then his face fell as he looked around his apartment. He had not cleaned up from the night before! Candle stubs in hardened puddles of wax littered every surface. The dishes were not done. Musical instruments from the day's practice lay everywhere. Papers from articles he was editing were strewn across the computer desk. He still needed to put medicine on his face and don his mask. Erik leapt from the computer chair and began throwing things into order.

Thirty-six minutes later, Christine knocked on the door. Erik ran from his bedroom where he had been folding clothes. He paused to catch his breath and smooth his shirt before opening the door. Christine stood there in threadbare jeans and a plain green t-shirt with her knapsack and a paper bag. She appeared to be waiting for something.

"Come in," he ventured. She took two steps into his apartment, set down her bags, and stood there with the same expectant look on her face. "What?" he finally asked, flummoxed.

"Hugs? Kisses?" Christine held out her arms with an inviting smile.

"I'm never going to get used to this," but his arms were around her before the words were out of his mouth.

"I bet you will," she said, and planted a light kiss on his lips. "That's better. I've been wanting to do that all day."

"Have you," he said doubtfully.

"Yes, Mr. Self-esteem. I have." She sat down in the computer chair and pulled a little black calendar out of her purse. "Before we do anything else, we have serious business. I want to go out with you again. I'd love to do another picnic and play some music. I've already checked the weather for the next few days. It's going to rain tomorrow, but by Friday it should be dry and warm again. So…do you want to go out to the park Friday afternoon? Or…I'm off Saturday. How about Saturday?"

Erik sighed. "Christine, you remember what happened last time…"

"Yes. I'm looking forward to it."

"I'm not. That was an uncomfortable experience – to make a severe understatement."

Christine was prepared for this resistance. She almost felt guilty about what she was going to do…almost. She looked up at him with a little pout. "Are you sure you wouldn't be willing to try it again? I really enjoyed myself last time, and I can't possibly do it without you…Please?"

Erik shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Going out in public, playing in public, being surrounded by crowds of staring people – these things amounted to his idea of Hell. But it was Christine who was asking. She'd said she couldn't do it with out him!

"I'd really rather not…"

Christine turned on the charm. She stood up and sidled close to him, biting her lower lip and brushing the back of his hand lightly with her fingertips. "Please, Erik? Now that I've played with you once, I can't imagine playing without you. Don't you remember how beautiful it was?"

"It was beautiful…"

"And I'll bring brownies…" she took his hand in both of hers.

"Maybe if we sit a little further off the main walkways…"

"And we can come here for coffee and dinner afterwards…" she wrapped his arm around her shoulders and snuggled up to him.

"Ok. You win. I'll do it, but I won't enjoy a minute of it."

"Of course you won't." She winked at him and gave him a little hug. "I'll be eternally grateful, though."

Erik walked away from her and began fiddling uncomfortably with the books on his bookshelf. After a few minutes, her left hand covered his while her right arm wrapped around him. "I know it's a hard thing for you to do. But I think that once we get out there, you'll find it's not as bad as you remember."

His hand dropped away from the bookshelf; he wasn't going to let her get away entirely scot-free. "One provision: you have to sing one song. I don't care what you choose, but you have to sing."

"Why?"

"Because if you won't, I won't go."

Christine groaned. He had her against the wall with no wriggle-room. "Ok…but just one song. One."

"Agreed."

"I brought Coconut Delites today. They aren't my own…they're from work. Are we going to cook here or order out?"

"You mean am _I_ going to cook here?" his wry grin made her blush.

"I guess that _is_ what I mean."

"I'd be happy to. Is spaghetti ok?"

She nodded. "May I use your cello while you cook? It was too much work to try to drag mine here on the bus…"

"Please do. If you are up to it, I'd love to hear the Haimovitz piece again. I won't be able to hear it from there, though. That room is heavily soundproofed."

Christine carried the cello out into the living room and played while he cooked. This was one of those times when she could see the peace beyond. As she finished the Haimovitz and wandered into other cello arrangements, she let herself imagine a life with Erik. She knew there would be the requisite fights and disagreements, but she was sure there would be far more music and waltzing than arguing. Even a good argument with Erik seemed to have its attractions. Unbeknownst to her, Erik was having similar daydreams in the kitchen. He imagined a life where he could prepare dinner for her every night and where she would play for him or sing for him whenever he asked. _Of course,_ they both thought, _these are just daydreams. _

Erik served up both plates, poured water and set up the table. He was loath to stop her playing just for dinner, but he guessed she was already hungry.

"Christine," he called softly, as though waking her from sleep, "dinner's ready."

She looked up in confusion before landing fully back on earth. When she joined him at the table, she remembered something from the night before. Though his mask was very light and flexible, it still got in his way a bit when he ate. It was obvious from the way he was trying to cut his spaghetti with a knife that it would be an especially difficult meal to manage with the mask in the way. She briefly considered whether she'd be able to continue her own meal if he wasn't wearing it, then pushed those selfish concerns aside.

"Do you normally wear your mask when you eat?" She asked casually, twirling spaghetti around her fork.

Erik set his fork down and stared at her for a minute. "When I'm eating with another person, of course I wear it. It would be rude not to."

"But when you eat alone…?"

"No." His response was nearly inaudible.

"Take it off, please."

"But you are trying to eat…"

"I'm supposed to be getting used to your face, right? Now's as good a time as any…" she shrugged off his concerns about her appetite. "Don't forget, you are also trying to eat."

He reflected for a moment before untying the thing and setting it on the table. She'd asked him to take it off. If it ruined her appetite, that was her own fault. He went back to eating. It _was_ easier without the mask, and he wouldn't have to worry about cleaning sauce off the leather later.

Christine looked up from the meatball she was cutting. She suppressed a shudder and then smiled. Only one day later, and she already could look at him without feeling nauseated. He glanced up and caught her smiling at him. After a moment's confusion he returned the smile shyly before looking studiously back down to his plate. His trust, the hesitant glance, and the little smile wrung the words out of her mouth before her head had a chance to interfere, "Oh Erik, I _do _love you."


	31. Honesty

**A/N: I've updated my profile to try to make it worth reading. If you are curious, please stop by there and give it a look-see. As always, thank you very-very much for your thoughtful reviews. Also, to my younger readers, this chapter does not contain sexual content, but there is definitely a sexual theme in the last two paragraphs. Please let me know if you think I should up the rating to T. (I changed some language earlier in the story to avoid the T rating, but I won't give up this scene)**

**Honesty**

Time stopped. Christine's eyes grew wide and her cheeks -predictably- reddened. She watched Erik nervously, unsure of how he would take her spontaneous declaration. He loved her -he'd said so - but he didn't know she knew. She'd meant to tell him tonight, but not like this. She had been envisioning something romantic, involving music and long, meaningful looks. So much for best-laid plans.

For his part, Erik was having trouble remembering how to chew and swallow. He was sure he'd heard her say she loved him. Of course, that was ridiculous...but was it? Images of all the little things she'd said and done recently flashed through his head. It certainly wasn't because he had pursued her that they were sitting together at dinner tonight. At every turn, Christine had been there asking for dates, suggesting duets, touching him, smiling at him; in short, loving him. He'd been so caught up in his own unlovability that he'd missed the significance of all those little actions. _You fool, _he upbraided himself, _why do you never listen to the Khan? _He remembered telling Nadir how Christine _couldn't_ love him, when she'd been there all along. He forcibly swallowed his half-chewed mouthful of spaghetti and looked up at her.

"May I ask you to say that again? I'm not sure I heard you correctly." His gaze held hers, his tone was even. Only the sudden formality of his speech gave away his surprise.

Christine raised her eyebrows in an expression that was almost apologetic. "I love you?" It came out as a question.

"I love you, too, Christine. I have for a long time, now."

"Why didn't you tell me?" It wasn't an accusation. Christine honestly wanted to know why he had held back for so long.

"Because I'm a foolish man. A lucky man...but foolish." He laughed softly. "I never thought I'd call myself a 'lucky man'."

Christine twirled another forkful of spaghetti for herself. "Honestly, I thought I'd have to work a lot harder to convince you that I really loved you."

"And you were prepared to do that?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

"It's you." She put the large bite in her mouth, rendering herself incapable of further explanation. She'd said the same thing the day before. "_It's you."_ He just shook his head.

"I don't see it, Christine, but I'm glad that you do."

They finished their dinner in a comfortable, thoughtful quiet. Christine finished first and waited for him to sit back. The moment he did, she took his plate and her own to the sink. She did not want him fussing over dishes; not this night. As she rinsed the dishes, she heard him come up behind her. His strong musician's fingers came to rest on her shoulders before sliding sensuously over her upper arms. _He's finally taking some initiative,_ she thought with relief.

"Put those down, Christine, please." He pitched his voice low enough that it rumbled in her ears. She'd grown used to the masculine perfection of his voice over the last few weeks. He was using it consciously now, using its warm power to draw her away from the mundane and into a musical dreamland. Willingly enough, set the half-rinsed dished in the bottom of the sink and turned to him. He'd replaced the mask –she'd have to correct that soon.

"I've never loved before. I don't know how it's done. But..." on this word, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the living room, "I am going to do my best for you." He set her gently on her feet beside the cello.

Christine giggled like a school-girl when he first picked her up, but by the time he set her back down, she was concentrating fully on his eyes. There were no giggles left. Her breathing had slowed and deepened. "I've never loved before either. I've dated, but never loved." She reached up and carefully tugged the ties on his mask. "But what I know of love does not permit disguises." She lifted the mask away gingerly, knowing that a slip of the fingers would cause him pain.

He took the black leather from her and dropped it onto the chair. "I intend to kiss you, Christine. Not a little peck on the lips. Can you stand that without the mask? You don't have to pretend it doesn't bother you."

She laughed again, this time it was the throaty laugh of a woman deep in the throes of love. "I intend to kiss you as well. Of course, you're too tall for me to kiss without jumping." Erik was sitting before she could breathe to speak the next sentence. "Your face... it still bothers me to look, but the longer I look, the less it bothers me." She leaned down and kissed him chastely, then settled onto his lap with her arms around his neck. "Besides, I won't be looking at you. I will have my eyes closed, thusly." She closed her eyes and turned her face towards his.

Erik might not have had experience in love, but he knew an open invitation when he saw one. Feeling brave and reckless, he leaned in and kissed her – not lightly and hesitantly as she expected, but passionately and lingeringly. She responded in kind and they melted together, deliriously happy. Minutes later they resurfaced for air.

"You know what that makes me want to do?" asked Christine, huskily.

Erik just stared at her with wide eyes. He dared not venture a comment – he certainly did not trust his voice at this point.

Christine slid off his lap and leaned her cello against her shoulder. She drew the bow slowly across the strings, fingers lightly skimming the fingerboard. She looked up at him, waiting.

"Go ahead, Christine. Play."

Two marks of genius are freedom from the constraints of tradition and the ability to improvise. Christine demonstrated the fullness of her virtuosity then, playing her passion and taking Erik along with her in the tidal wave. Once the pattern of her melody became evident, he joined in wordlessly, vocalizing freely in a voice fit to make angels weep. They both knew that their relationship was still too young for lovemaking of a franker sort...but in the musicians' minds, there was little separation between a joining of their music and a joining of their bodies. This unrestrained outpouring was as intimate as naked flesh, as cathartic as any climax between lovers.

Christine left near midnight, the warm tingle of his kisses on her lips and the hot echoes of his music in her ears. She felt clean, hollow. Before she left, she'd seen him stretched out on the floor in absolute ecstasy. His last words as she left were, "I love you, Christine" but this time he spoke them loud enough for her and every neighbor on his hall to hear.


	32. Meg

**A/N: A few people have requested the soundtrack to Binary. I'll have it ready to email to you over the next few days, depending on work and school requirement. In the meantime, I present:**

**Meg**

After taking a double dose of his pain killer, Erik attached his TENS unit and sat down, trying to ignore the searing ache in his face. Kissing was something he would have to learn how to do without hurting himself – the intensity and pressure were too much. While he waited for the electrodes to dull the remaining pain, he logged onto the net to check his email. To his confusion, there was a private message from Christine – and the time stamp was eight o'clock that evening. He was entirely sure she'd been with him; they'd been locked in a musician's embrace at the time. Warily, he clicked on it.

minorchord:_ Hey. This is Meg. :-D I want 2 talk 2 U about C. If shE goes back 2 thE _

_conservatorE, they will give her thE degrE. They've offered that all shE has 2 do is play her final concert. WE have 2 convince her 2 go back. She won't listen 2 mE, but I think shE'll listen 2 U. Call mE. 555.5555. Don't mention this 2 C, please. _

Meg had used her spare-key privileges again. Erik seemed to appreciate Christine's talent; Meg hoped he would be willing to ally with her to help Christine get over her past. Soon, Meg would have her B.S. in Environmental Sciences. She would move on to the coastline and hopefully get a job working to save Washington's gorgeous wetlands. The notion that she might have to leave talented Christine behind at the dead-end job in the coffee shop tore at her. It was her Holy Grail to get her best friend back on track with her life. The exhortations of friends, relatives and school officials had all been for naught – but Erik already had her singing and performing. Maybe he could work a miracle.

After sending the message, Meg carefully rearranged the mouse and computer desk as she had found them. She walked home slowly, hoping with each step that her cell phone would ring. She needed Erik to call so they could conspire to get Christine back into the conservatory. She needed Christine to call so she could find out when the happy couple's next park date was. Devious by nature, but only in the most benevolent of ways, Meg searched for opportunities to use her skills in subversion to better the lives of those around her. She wasn't the sort of woman to ask permission from those she intended to benefit – she just went ahead and did what she thought was right.

No calls came in that night, but the next day, Christine was simply bubbling with information. She was percolating faster than the PerkMaster ™ coffee pot.

"So then, he said, _'How long will it take you to get here?' _and I just left and went over. He's a _great_ kisser, Meg. _Great! _ And he's strong…he picked me up like I was nothing, and that's saying something. And then we played music together – I know I've played with him before, but this felt like nothing I've _ever_ played before. It was…" Christine leaned in close to Meg to whisper the next word, "sexy!" She resumed her normal tone. "But the most exciting thing and the reason we were doing all that kissing and so on is that I accidentally told him I loved him…and he just looked at me and said – calm as you please – _'I love you, too, Christine. I have for a long time, now.'_" Deepening and smoothing her voice, Christine did a passable imitation of Erik. "And we kissed. Did I mention that yet? And then, after I'd played and he'd sung and we kissed, then we _danced…" _Christine grabbed Meg and began whirling her between the tables. "until we fell down from exhaustion. Or was it dizziness? Oh it was _wonderful_!"

Meg was grinning so hard her face ached. She halted Christine in her mad swirling to point out that it was nearly time to unlock the doors and let the first wave begin.

"That sounds like two perfect evenings in a row. Maybe this guy really is your Prince Charming. I am so happy for you! You deserve this more than anyone I know. He's a very lucky guy." She unlocked the door and took up her station beside the espresso machine. "But, did you schedule another date with him? I mean, going to his apartment is great and all – but you can't become a recluse just because he is."

"Oh! I _totally_ forgot to tell you! We are going back to Interlaken on Saturday…we're going to meet at one in the afternoon and have a little picnic and then play something. He drives a hard bargain though: to get him to go I had to agree to sing. Can you imagine that? Me, singing in public? Whew…"

"No. I really can't. But then, you've been full of surprises recently. One, huh? Broad daylight again." Meg was muttering to herself over the machine, trying to get the ground coffee into the stubborn thing.

Christine was humming happily to herself, pouring coffees and cocoas with joy. Had her head descended from the clouds, she would have realized that Meg was not being her usual self and on closer examination would have suspected that a Meg-plot was afoot. As it was, she missed her first break entirely, and would have missed lunch, had Meg not dragged her out by the hand.

Erik called Meg at three-thirty. He did not expect Christine for more than half an hour, so this seemed the best time.

"Hello?" Meg's brassy voice boomed in the headset.

"Hello, Meg. This is…"

"Erik. Who else could it be with that voice? I'm glad you finally decided to call me."

"You think I can convince Christine to go back to the Conservatory." His dubious tone suggested that this might be a harder sell than expected.

"Of course you can! She's absolutely smitten with you." Given Christine's breathless babbling from that morning, Meg felt safe declaring this to him.

"And what makes you think I would want to do that?"

"Ummm…because you _care_ about what happens to her, I thought? Because you want to see her succeed…" Meg's temper was starting to rise. She could feel her muscles tense.

"Oh. I do, more than you can possibly imagine. But what makes you think that's the best way for her to succeed? She told me what they did to her there. She told me about the humiliation she suffered. I know humiliation, and I love her too much to…."

"It's not like it will happen again, Erik. Seriously."

"No. But what will she feel walking through those doors again? What will she feel as she mounts the stage? What if she freezes? What if she is so overwhelmed by being back in the place that she forgets the music?"

"What if you stop inserting your own fears into her life and help her best friend _who has known her for more than twenty years_get her over this funk she's been in and put her in the spotlight _where she belongs?_" Meg's voice had taken on a frustrated stridency.

"You don't know what it's like…"

"I know because I. Was. There. I was there picking up the pieces." Meg struggled valiantly to hold onto her temper. "Don't tell me what I don't know! When you decide to get over yourself and help her, you call me back. I'll be waiting."

"You'll be waiting for quite some time."

Meg lost it. She didn't yell – she became cold, and her voice carried no emotion. Erik cringed on his side of the line. "Fine then. You claim to love her, but you won't help her. Fine. But the next time you watch her perform, you look in her eyes and tell me she doesn't need to be on the stage."

Not willing to hear another word from Erik, Meg hung up and thrust her phone into her purse. Why were men always so difficult? He would come around eventually, she was sure of that. The only question was, would she let him live until he did…

Erik stared at his suddenly silent phone. "Irish…" he muttered, and returned the headset to the receiver.


	33. Soundtrack so far

Binary Soundtrack: Some song and/or artists appear more than once. For me, writing requires repetition of certain songs/places/feelings.

For those of you who requested this by email - I managed to send it to some of you, but many of your email addresses had delivery failures.

(The Anonymous Medium)

Matt Haimovitz - Immigrant Song  
Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah  
Flogging Molly - Far Away Boys

(Wouldn't It Be Easier)

Felix Mendelsshon Concerto in E-minor; Allegro Molto Appassionato

(A Little History)

Nine Inch Nails - Becoming  
Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata (Opus 27. No 2)

(Of Latte and Loneliness)

Apocalyptica - Refuse/Resist  
Igor Stravinsky - Song of the Nightingale  
Matt Haimovitz - Anthem

(Five Minutes)

Radiohead - Spinning Plates  
Ralph V. Williams - The Lark Ascending

(Delicious Irony )

Dresden Dolls - Girl Anachronism  
Matt Haimovitz - Immigrant Song

(Talk to Me #1)

Ralph V. Williams - The Lark Ascending  
In the Flesh? - Pink Floyd

(Talk to Me #2 )

Nick Drake - Way to Blue  
Nick Drake - Cello Song

(It's Like In Spring)

Puccini & Janacek - Mass in E-flat Sanctus  
Debussy - Claire du Lune

(Stealthily, or Not)

Flogging Molly - Devil's Dance Floor  
Quasi - Our Happiness is Guaranteed  
Scheherazade Igor Stravinsky - Scheheradzade  
Simon and Garfunkel - Most Peculiar Man  
Simon and Garfunkel - Sound of Silence

(Sage Advice)

Open Canvas Liquid Shiva

(Girl-Talk )

Flogging Molly - Swagger  
Various - Princess Bride Soundtrack

(Negotiations)

Too many to remember - Arias from Aida, PoTO Soundtrack, Others  
Lesley Garrett - Ave Maria  
David Darling - Serenity

(Just Play)

Elliot Smith - Say Yes  
Suzie Tallman - Suo Gan  
Simon and Garfunkel - America  
Nick Drake - Fruit Tree

(A Most Peculiar Man)

Flogging Molly - Queen Anne's Revenge  
Gaye Adegbalola - Jail House Blues

(And It All Comes Down to This)

Radiohead - Creep  
Beethoven Pathetique - Sonata

(Short Night, Long Talk)

Phish - Prince Caspian  
Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata (Opus 27. No 2)

(At Work)

Bonnie Prince Billy - Today I Was an Evil One  
Bonnie Prince Billy - Madeleine Mary

(And At Play)

Dresden Dolls - Coin-Operated Boy  
Digable Planet - Pacifics  
Schulhoff Duet for Violin and Cello

(The Wheels on the Bus)

Schuman - Adagio  
A.L.Webber - Stranger Than You Dreamt It

(Coffee)

Home - Forgiveness  
Flogging Molly - Devil's Dance Floor

(A Duet Has Two Parts)

Beta Band - Metronome Song  
Schulhoff - Duet for Violin and Cello

(I Didn't Want To)

Flogging Molly - Danny Boy  
Mozart - Requiem: Lacrimosa

(The Dating Game)

Beatles - Happiness is a Warm Gun  
Open Canvas - Prana

(Perfect) Vivaldi The Four Seasons  
Strauss - The Beautiful Blue Danube & Other Waltzes  
East Village Opera Company - Flower Duet Redux

(By Candlelight)

Kingsbury Manx - Regular Hands  
Brainbug - Nightmare  
Elliot Smith - Say Yes

(And Then)

Fiona Apple - The Child is GoneRachmaninov - Flight of the Bumblebee  
Doria Roberts - Perfect

(It's Changing Me)

Himalayan Voices - Metamorphosis

(New Eyes)

Crosby, Stills, & Nash - Helplessly Hoping  
Rusted Root - Drum Trip

(Honesty )

Rusted Root Blue Diamonds  
Quasi - You Turn Me On  
Bonnie Prince Billy Nomadic Revelry

(Meg)

Flogging Molly - Sentimental Journey  
Flogging Molly - Salty Dog


	34. If

**A/N: There have been some questions in reviews that merit asnwering. (1)What is aTENS unit? It's a little set of electrodes that is supposed to reduce pain by thte use of a mild electrical current. It is often used when pain medicine alone isn't working well enough. (2) Wouldn't Erik have less sensation as opposed to more if the nerves were destroyed? Yes. IF. But all of his nerves weren't destroyed. Some are intact, some are damaged, some are destroyed. He has a condition called neuropathy. (3) Where did I get my info on this? Two sources. My friend who has neuropathy from neck surgeryand uses a TENS unit and a Neurologist who prescribes TENS units and reports a 75 response rate. She says "Some of the effect might just be placebo - but if a thing works, hey."**

**That being said,here's the next chapter. **

**If…**

When Christine appeared at his door a few minutes later Erik greeted her with a hug and a careful kiss.

"Christine, please come sit and talk with me."

"Sure. That's why I'm here. So we can talk…among other things." She flashed him a sparkling smile and waved her flute at him.

"Seriously." He sat down at the kitchen table and thumbed the petals of the flowers she had never taken home with her.

"What is it?" She sat down across fro him, wondering what new thing could have cropped up to bug him.

"On the bus, you told me about your experience at the Conservatory," he watched uncomfortably as she dropped her eyes and began playing with the cuffs of her sleeves. "I was wondering; would you ever consider going back to finish that degree?"

"Erik, I thought I already explained all this to you…"

"You did. Those scum won't be there if you go back, though. You could go back, put on one performance and.."

"How do you know that? About the one performance deal? I never told…" she trailed off as understanding dawned. "Meg. That red-headed busy-body…when I get my hands on her…I love her, but I'm going to throttle her."

"But you are very much against going back and finishing what you began?"

"I never want to set foot there again."

Erik nodded and took her hand reassuringly.

"Meg wanted me to convince you to go back. I told her no –she wasn't pleased about that, I don't think - but then I thought I ought to make sure of your feelings on the subject. Now that I have double-checked and you are still very against the idea, I feel better about refusing to conspire with her."

"How did she get to you?"

"Trillian, just like you did." Erik let her mull this for moment, then patted her hand supportively. "I personally stand by your decision to avoid that situation." Having put Christine in a more comfortable, trusting mindset, he then threw his first calculated punch. "After all, it's what I've done and it's worked for me pretty well."

Christine's mouth opened as though she were about to speak, but no words emerged. Erik stood up, leaned over, kissed her forehead and walked to the music room. Once his back was turned, he smiled. The first punch had hit its mark squarely, he could tell. _How bittersweet is this,_ he thought as he walked into the music room and picked up his violin. _But if it works, wouldn't that be wonderful…_

He carried his precious violin back to the living room and stood facing the black curtained window. Christine was still sitting at the dinner table, staring blankly at the roses. _Let her get the point. Please just let this reach her. _Erik lifted the beautiful instrument to his chin and set his bow to the strings. Barber's _Adagio for Strings_ was one of the most beautiful pieces in his extensive repertoire. It was performance-ready from beginning to end. As he played now, he imagined himself onstage, maybe in Carnegie hall, backed by a symphony of the greatest musicians the world had to offer. The seats were filled with gorgeous people in evening wear, dripping with money, so entranced by his skill they forgot to breathe. Yes, he was good enough. But it was only a sweet dream, never to be reality – for him at least. For Christine, though...

In one way, Meg was right; Christine would be happy performing for a living. It was the only life Erik could imagine for her. But in another way, Meg was entirely wrong. No one else could convince her or make her return to the scene of her humiliation. This was not a job for the iron fist, but for the silken glove. She had to see truth for herself. If she decided to go back, he would be by her side every step of the way, no matter what it cost him. If she decided to hide forever in the little coffee shop, he'd stand with her then, too.

Erik sensed her nearness. She was standing a few feet away, listening and (hopefully) thinking. He ignored her nearness and played through the entire piece, indulging in his fantasy. When he was finished, he stood quietly with his head bowed and his violin hanging by his side. Christine ran her fingers through his hair, then smoothed it. She let her hand trial down his neck and arm until it came to rest on his.

"Amazing," she whispered. "I know what you are capable of, but still: amazing."

He laughed hollowly. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I think the curtain was impressed as well."

"I learned part of it several years ago. Would you be willing to help me brush up on it before Saturday?"

Erik nodded. He had almost forgotten about Saturday. There would be a lovely late lunch followed by a performance. Their performance. He thought about Meg's argument – _just look in her eyes when she's performing,_ she'd said.

"Pull out the cello. We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

"I'm so glad you'll be with me," she said as she tuned up. "This Saturday, I mean. I wasn't kidding when I said I couldn't do these things without you."

"I'll be with you as long as you'll have me." He touched her cheek lightly to get her attention. "You may think these hands are talented, but I'm just strange noise without you."


	35. Saturday, in the park

**A/N: this chapter now corrected for NUMEROUS errors. (and thank you VERY much, my diligent readers – the original was written at gawd-awful in the morning, and therefore was lacking) **

**Saturday, In the Park**

Christine met Erik at his apartment. He'd offered to let her take the concert cello with them to the park. Its sound was truer and richer than her own; she looked forward to playing it. She also looked forward to letting six-foot tall Erik wrestle the thing on and off the buses. He emerged from his apartment loaded down with violin, cello, and a bag containing the lunch he'd made. Christine giggled into her hand, realizing how she must have looked that first day, tumbling off the bus.

"Here. Here. Let me get the bag...don't you have a bookbag? Geez...that's heavy! What are we having for lunch? Roast pig? I'll take the violin as well." She went about relieving him of everything but the cello. "There we go."

"You look lovely, Christine. There's something different..." he looked her over as they hurried down the hallway and out to the bus stop.

"I didn't have time to try to do anything with my hair. It's just hanging there." If her hands hadn't been full, she would have tried to pull it under control. "I'd hardly call it an improvement..."

"I would." He would have said more, but a child's voice interrupted.

"Look, Mom! It's that weird guy from our hall!"

"Shhh, Jonathan." The mother's embarrassed whisper carried clearly.

The kid's voice dropped to a loud whisper. "Why does he wear that mask? I bet he's a monster under there."

"Jonathan! Hush!"

"You're the one who said he was probably burned or somethmmmf!" The horrified mother clapped a hand over the kid's mouth, but the damage was already done.

Erik turned away from the two and began to walk back towards the apartment building. Christine jumped after him and caught his arm, dropping their lunch in the process.

"Let me go, Christine." His voice was no more than a growl.

"No. You promised to go with me."

Without a word, he roughly pulled his arm from her grasp and continued his steady march. Christine turned and shot a look of pure fire at the mother and child who were staring at the dramatic scene before dashing after him. She circled in front of him, stopping his progress once more. She lowered her voice so that it carried no further than the two of them.

"Erik, please. He's just a dumb little kid. He doesn't even know what he's saying."

"He's not so dumb – he guessed right, didn't he?"

"Don't be..."

"Don't be what, Christine? Honest?" Erik was walking forward again, gently but firmly bulldozing her out of his way. "I should take the damned mask off – show that brat how right he is."

"Sure!" Christine exclaimed in a last-ditch effort to stop him. The bus would arrive soon. "Sure! Take it off...whatever!" She'd spent nearly a week preparing her song; she and Erik had put in hours and hours perfecting their rendition of Adagio for Strings. All of that work, all that preparation was about to go to waste. "But come with me – don't tell me some stupid little kid's words are more important to you than I am." It was a cheap shot, but she was desperate. If he turned back now, she'd never drag him out again.

Erik looked down at her in consternation. Is that what she would think? "I can't...

The bus pulled into the station and people started climbing on. Christine looked back over her shoulder.

"Choose, Erik; a day with me in the park, or another day hiding by yourself in your apartment. Because I'm going." With that, she turned and walked towards the bus, his violin still clutched in her hand. She leaned down and scooped up the lunch sack and climbed onto the bus. She pushed her way to the back, forcing herself not to peer out the window to see what his choice was.

"Ow!"

"Hey!"

"Watch what you're doing with that thing!"

Christine beamed down at the violin case. She knew that sound. That was the sound of a person dragging a huge cello down the narrow aisle of a crowded bus. He thumped heavily into the seat beside her. Christine looked up at him, pride shining in her eyes. She leaned over and kissed the side of his neck.

"I knew you'd make the right choice," she purred.

Without turning towards her, he growled, "You kept my violin."

"Is that the only reason you came?" she asked, feigning a pout.

"You also kept my lunch."

"I love you, Erik," she shifted the violin case and laid her hand on his thigh.

It wasn't long before his slender fingers twined through hers.

Once they'd disembarked, Christine led Erik down to the lakeshore and proceeded to spread the quilt. Erik opened the lunch sack and groaned in annoyance. When Christine dropped it, the lid was knocked off the casserole dish (which was miraculously unbroken). Chicken florentine casserole was spilled and mashed in the bottom of the bag, no longer attractively layered gold on green on white. Christine peered over his shoulder and barked a laugh.

"I guess we'll be eating it au sac, hmm?" She pulled out the plastic forks she'd brought. "Oh well. It smells delish. I bet it looked good, too, before its little incident."

"You did this, you know," he accused. He was still upset over the bus stop and was not in a very gracious mood.

"Well that's a matter of perspective, now isn't it." Christine thrust a fork into his hand. She was just happy he'd come instead of slinking off to his sanctuary. "Eat up. I'm not singing until I've got something in my stomach."

They ate together quietly for awhile. She was enjoying the day; he was brooding. As before, people passed by, paying them no mind.

"You realize that that little boy was only saying out loud what others think, right?" Erik sat cross-legged, pulling small tufts of grass. "You realize that anywhere we go, people will be thinking the same thing, whispering things – and that's if we're lucky and they're being polite."

Christine packed up the remaining casserole and stowed their forks before answering. "I know."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Yes, it bothers me. I could have slapped that kid and his mother– and I don't condone violence against children, but..."

"I mean, doesn't that make you a little wary of going out with me? Having a freak at your side makes you a freak, too, in their eyes."

"So be it," she muttered, handing him his violin case. "I really don't care. The only danger is that I'll get arrested for assault with a deadly cello if I overhear nastiness."

"You wouldn't..." he protested, but he was beginning to smile for the first time since the kid had piped up.

"I definitely would. You think I could be friends with Meg all these years and have nothing rub off?" She rosined her bow and passed him the little wooden box.

"You have a point there." He took the little booklet of sheet music she handed him and spread it on the ground. It was a relatively simple piece, straightforward and strophic. He had it memorized in moments. The words, though...he read through it again. "Why did you pick this song?"

"If you don't already know, I'm certainly not going to tell you." she teased, and began warming up her voice.

The song was "Perfect" by Doria Roberts. It was a simple, sweet love song. Erik lifted his violin and made a quick, quiet practice run, transcribing the music from its original guitar to something more suited to violin.

"Does that work for you?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Wonderful. Are you ready? This song, Adagio for Strings, and then the Duet, and your piece?

"If you want."

"I'll want, believe me. Let's do this thing." He began to play and she sang. Christine's voice had been improving incrementally since they began lessons. The voice that emerged now had none of the original breathy timidity left. It was like melted toffee, sweet and warm on the ears of the listeners – and there were listeners. Again, people began to gather. Quickly, their numbers swelled, as they had swelled before.

Instead of remaining oblivious, this time the two musicians fed off the crowd's energy. At least Christine did. Erik found that same wave of energy, not from the crowd, but from the ecstatic light in Christine's eyes as she performed. She was a natural, a genius. Her joy was infectious – soon he was as close to Nirvana as she was.

After each piece, the audience applauded. Every ovation was a standing ovation. People who normally eschewed classical music found they were unable to walk away. Only one person was not clapping and cheering. She sat quietly at the edge of the crowd, a miniature recorder trapped between her toes and a pencil and steno pad in her hands. When the performance ended, she quietly rose and slipped away, still unnoticed.


	36. Chess

**Chess**

The episode with 'Jonathan' had sensitized Christine to a world of stares and whispers. One they'd left the crowd where the whispers were all about who the mysterious musicians might be, the whispers changed. They were no longer murmurings of admiration. Mostly, they consisted of variations on, "_Look, that guy's wearing a mask. Weird." _The whisperers had no malicious intent; they were simply commenting on a strange phenomenon and bringing their companions' attention to it. Not without some shame, she realized that she would have done the same if she'd been with Meg and Erik had passed by. She knew Erik heard them, too. His ears were sharper than hers.

They climbed onto the bus, claiming the front seats this time. The first few miles passed in silence; Christine was pondering Erik, Erik was pondering:

"You know you light up when you play for a crowd?"

"That was an appreciative crowd," she demurred.

"It makes you very beautiful. Have I ever told you that? You are an absolutely stunning beauty when you play."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she grinned. She wasn't taking a word he said seriously. She had mirrors at home - she knew what she looked like.

"She doesn't believe me," Erik complained, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Why do I have to get the one woman who won't take a compliment?"

"Give me a compliment I believe, and I'll take it."

"Ok, Ms. Self-esteem. You play like an angel, and _while_ you are playing, you look like one."

"And when I'm not?" she quizzed.

"You're still cute."

"But not beautiful?"

"I know better than to answer such a question." Erik sat back, with a look that declared the conversation over.

"Wise man." She nodded approvingly. Scenery passed. "I can't wait to get home."

Erik looked over at her, hurt. "Tired of me already?"

"Huh?" Christine blinked. "No. I mean I can't wait to get back to your place."

"You said home."

"Did I," she said, and leaned against him. "Same difference."

---- --- -- --- - - -- -- ---- ----- -- --- - ----- -- ------- - ---- ----- - - -- - - ----

Once back in Erik's apartment, Christine put the instruments away while Erik cleaned up the remains of lunch and prepared to make dinner. As usual, they were both reflecting on how comfortable they were performing routine household chores together – but as usual, they reflected separately. While setting the cello back on its stand, Christine saw one of her old rosin boxes on the floor next to the dulcimer. She picked it up, walked into the kitchen and tapped Erik on the shoulder.

"It's begun," she intoned ominously.

He waited for her to go on.

"The Migration of Stuff. It's begun. My things are finding their way over to your place, and not finding their way home again. Now it's rosin boxes; soon, it will be a favorite book, my toothbrush, a change of clothes..."

"You already have a change of clothes here," he interrupted.

"Do you know what this means?

"That you're forgetful?"

"No. It means that we'll be living together soon." She took in his shocked expression and shrugged. "It happens." She stood on her tiptoes and turned her face up for a kiss. When he leaned down to grant it, she untied his mask and took it. "You know it's weird, but I'm starting to hate this thing."

She turned it over in her hands a few times, then tied it over her face. It had a strange smell, resulting from a mix of leather and ointments. It felt soft against her skin, but undeniably oppressive. The breathing slits allowed plenty of air, but there was still a sensation of being slowly smothered. She could see the eyeholes in the periphery of her vision. They added shadow to everything she saw.

Erik stood silently, warring with himself over her actions. A part of him watched with a guilty feeling of satisfaction. Finally, someone was seeing the world as he saw it, feeling as he felt. Another part of him felt as though some incredibly intimate line had been crossed. The largest part of him, though, only felt one way. He wanted to rip the mask from her face and throw it across the room. Before he could move to act on this feeling, she did it for him. It landed on the opposite side of the living room where it lay like a shadow with blank, staring eyes.

Christine shuddered, sickened. "You don't ever have to wear that...that _thing _around me again. In fact, please don't. Ever. I don't know how you can stand it."

"It's not so bad, once you get used to it," he stated with a calm he did not feel.

"Just don't, ok?"

"I have to if we're going out..."

"When we're alone together. Promise me."

He nodded. "That I can do." He strained his mind for some good change of subject. "Do you play chess?"

"No. I know what the pieces do, but I never played much." Christine was still staring the mask as though it were a particularly venomous spider.

"Funny. I'd have thought you'd be a past-master. Well, there's a lot more to it than just knowing 'what the pieces do'. Would you like to learn?"

"Sure, but you're going to beat me every time." She was willing let him change the subject.

Erik pulled out a beautiful onyx chess set. It had been a gift from Nadir during one of his many convalescences. They played for several hours; Christine never once came close to beating him. Finally, she laughed and tipped her king over before they ever began.

"I surrender. I bow to your chess mastery." She sighed with mock-sorrow.

"There's a book you can read. Get comfortable in the armchair while I find it for you."

Christine settled into the overstuffed E-Z Boy. Erik was back in a split second with "The Fundamentals of Chess" in his hand. "Look through this – it might give you some ideas. I have an article I need to finish up editing, then I'll be back to beat you a few more times."

She flipped through the book, wanting to be interested, but unable to absorb herself in the specifics of the "Ruy Lopez" opening. Erik sat at his computer, listening to something soft by Brahms. He was typing continuously and the soft tap-tapping was soporific. She was soundly asleep when he turned to ask her how the reading was coming along.

She looked so comfortable, he decided not to wake her. Instead, he took the blanket from his bed and covered her before taking his shower and retiring to bed himself. She slept the night through, waking only when a thin shaft of sunlight sneaked between the curtains. A quick glance at the clock told her she had just enough time to catch the bus home, change, and jog to work. She was in far too much of a hurry to eat breakfast while perusing the morning paper, as she usually did.


	37. Being Seen

**A/N: My production has slowed down, and I do apologize. I am only allowing myself to write in short spurts between studying and working. Things have gotten a bit hectic at both work and school, but since this story's in my head, I can't stop writing. I hope you continue to enjoy... **

**Being Seen**

Erik woke nearly three hours later. At first, he merely lay in bed, enjoying the rare feeling of having gotten enough sleep. Then he noticed that he was a little chilly. Then he noticed that his blanket was gone. Then he remembered that Christine had fallen asleep in his E-Z Boy last night, and had to be at work today by eight o'clock. A quick glance at his bedside alarm clock told him that it was nearly nine; if she had not awakened on her own, she would already be an hour late for work. He jumped out of bed and dashed into the other room, half-hoping she would still be there.

The chair was empty, the blanket hurriedly folded and draped over its back. He grinned, thinking about how she'd spent the night snuggled under his comforter. He scanned the room and saw that she'd left her scrunchy on the counter. _The Migration of Stuff,_ he thought. _Soon we'll be living together?_ It didn't jibe. He'd lived alone for so long...but her smile in the morning, her arms around him in the afternoon, her kiss at night, her music day in and day out – it sounded like heaven to him. _And if she lived with me, she wouldn't have to work. She could concentrate wholly on her music. _

"It will never happen," he muttered to himself, sitting down to get some work done. As usual, before he checked his email for the latest articles, he scanned the local newspaper's website. Everything was pretty much standard: this person was killed, that child won a spelling bee, this politician was found to be corrupt. But..._but..._in the Entertainment section an article caught his eye and then sent him running for the phone.

**_Mystery Musicians Amaze Parkgoers_**

_By Ellen Coolidge, Staff Reporter_

_If you were at Interlaken Park yesterday after one in the afternoon, you might have heard the voice of an angel followed by a world-class string duet performance._

_Two unidentified artists, one masked, held a crowd exceeding four hundred people captivated for an hour with renditions of "Perfect" by Doria Roberts, Adagio for Strings by Barber, Duet for Violin and Cello by Schulhoff, and a beautiful piece with which this reporter is sadly unacquainted. The performers accepted no payment and left shortly after concluding their performance_

_. Park officials deny hiring or inviting any musicians to perform. Local symphony orchestras also claimed no knowledge that any of their musicians might be involved. After hearing a recording of the performance, the Seattle Symphony music director expressed an interest in meeting the musicians, saying, "It would be my honor to make the acquaintance of such brilliant virtuosos." He asks that the artists involved contact the newspaper at 555-5555 for contact information._

_----- - --- ------- - --- - -- ------ - -------- --- --- ----- --- - ------- ------- --- ---- - - -- --- _

Christine listened with annoyance as her phone range from the kitchen for the fourth time. The world seemed to be conspiring against her sanity today. The bus from Erik's apartment had come slightly late, a creepy guy took the seat across from hers and smiled at her all the way to her stop, her uniform was still wrinkled from the day before, she'd gotten sweaty on her jog to work, and Meg was acting like the cat that ate the canary. Now her phone would not stop ringing. When it began to ring for the fifth time, Meg gave her a little shove.

"Go answer it, Miss Chris. Maybe you won the lottery."

Christine picked it up and looked at the unfamiliar number. It was probably a solicitor.

"Hello?" she fairly snarled the greeting.

"Christine, have you seen the newspaper this morning?" Erik's wonderful voice boomed through the headset.

"No. Why?" Christine sighed. "Erik, do you know I'm at work right now?"

"Never mind that," he snapped impatiently. "Check the newspaper. Read the Entertainment section." He was trying to keep his voice even and calm.

"Ok."

"And call me at this number when you're done."

"Umm...ok. Bye."

"Call me."

Erik hung up on a very confused Christine. She returned to the counter, where Meg was still watching her with a sly half-smile on her face.

"Meg, do we have our copy of this morning's newspaper still? Or did one of the zombies shamble off with it..."

"Heehee! You're a funny person, Christine, you know that?" Meg reached under the counter and pulled out the morning paper still wrapped neatly in its plastic sheath. "I saved it today."

"Why? What is going on? Will someone please just tell me what is going on? You're grinning at me like that all morning, then Erik goes ballistic on my cell phone and _no one will tell me what the hell is going..._Oh. Oh my..." While Christine was ranting, Meg unwrapped the paper, grabbed the Entertainment section and shoved it under her nose. "_Mystery Musicians? _No wonder Erik was so freaked out."

"So it _is_ the two of you. Oh, I just _knew _it was. Do you see these adjective? '_Voice of an angel_' – is that him? Or you? '_World-class'. 'Brilliant virtuosos'. _I saw all that and I just _knew_ it had to be you..."

"This is..." Christine looked up at Meg in a panic. "We're in the _newspaper! _ How will I ever get Erik out there again?"

_"_Maybe that's something you should talk to him about." Meg raised an eyebrow. "You sound as though this is a _bad_ thing. This could be huge for you, Christine. You've been _seen! _You live in a city with thousands of wanna-be musicians clamoring for attention, and you get it without even trying. I mean, just _look_ at this. The Seattle Symphony music directed would be '_honored_ _to make your acquaintance.' _Aren't you the one who said you'd never audition there because the man was such a snob? And now he's left his contact information at the newspaper and is probably waiting breathlessly in his office for your call."

Christine rubbed the bridge of her nose and leaned heavily against the counter. "When is our break?"

On her break, Christine picked up her phone and called Erik, grateful for the caller ID function.

"Christine?"

"I saw it, Erik."

"Did you know anything about that?" his tone was suspicious.

"No. I really didn't. Not until you called me."

"Christine...are you going to call the newspaper?"

Christine paused. Until he asked, she had not even considered calling to get the music director's contact information. Now, she was beginning to wonder if she should. "No. I hadn't thought of that either. This is really a shock. I'm still trying to believe that we're in the newspaper."

"You should call him, Christine."

"Why me?"

There was only silence from the other end of the line.

"Then no. I won't call him." The silence continued. "My break is almost over. I...I might have some things to talk to you about this afternoon."

"What would you like for dinner?" Erik drew a slow breath and continued, "A celebration dinner..."

Christine suddenly felt the weight of anxiety fall away from her shoulders. A celebration dinner meant he wasn't taking this too badly. Maybe the things she had to talk to him about wouldn't be entirely ill-received.

"Surprise me. You're good at that. My break really is over. I have to go. Love you..."

"I love you, too, Christine." Erik always pronounced those words as though they were diamonds in his mouth.

Christine returned to the counter, pleased to see one lone customer sitting in one of the far corner booths, drinking a huge latte and reading a book entitled, "Byron's Greatest Works." Meg was leaning on the counter, smirking to herself. _Smirking..._Christine though, _Meg doesn't _smirk

"Megan Giry, what do _you_ know about this? How did this reporter know where to find us and what time?"

"Me? I don't know anything about it." Meg's shocked expression screamed her innocence.

"Are you sure?" Christine did not believe the show for a moment.

"Positive. How would I know anything about this?"

"Ok. As long as it wasn't you who called the newspaper to tip off their arts and entertainment reporter to our presence in the park. Of course you wouldn't do anything like that." Christine paused and gave Meg a significant look. "even though you've been trying to make me audition for years, and even though you are the only one who knew about our date."

"Christine, Really, I..." Meg looked markedly nervous now.

"Save it, Meg. You can't lie to me any more than I can lie to you." Christine watched Meg's face fall with some satisfaction. "But never mind. We're almost out of Super-mugs."

In truth, Christine was glad Meg had called the newspaper. If this continued, Erik would eventually get the recognition he deserved. All she would have to do is make sure Meg continued to know about their dates in the park, and make sure Erik continued to go out with her to perform. Christine was not naturally a schemer. She was generally a straightforward, honest person. However, as Meg's schemes came to light, Christine began to develop a little plan of her own.


	38. If you will, I will

**A/N: Someone has noticed that my newspaper article is not very journalistic. How very right you are, and it just kills me, too. I have no journalistic skill, whatsoever. So here we go – a contest of sorts. Rewrite that article so that it contains the pertinent information and all the words and phrases used later in the chapter, and I'll overwrite my article with yours and credit your name or user name to it. Please!**

**If You Will, I Will**

Erik's door opened slowly, but there appeared to be no one there opening it. Christine stepped inside, looking around warily. The moment she was clear of the door's path, it swung shut. Erik was standing behind it – without his mask on. He'd apparently taken her request that he _never _wear the thing around her again very seriously, but he was taking no chances that anyone else should see him without it.

After hugging her thoroughly, Erik gestured behind him to the new sofa he'd had delivered that day. "Do you like it? I thought it might be nice for us to sit down together without sitting on the floor." His shy look confused her until she realized that he'd bought this exclusively for the two of them; Erik had no other visitors.

"It's gorgeous, Erik," she reassured him. "Let's give it a try, shall we? It doesn't look like you've so much as sat down on it the first time."

"No. And I thought the deliverymen would never leave. They insisted on carrying the damned thing in here themselves." His face and voice were fraught with nerves; she guessed the deliverymen had spent much of their time gawping at him.

Christine threw herself onto the couch and patted the seat next to her. "Come on...it's not going to bite you. It's really soft, too. This must be designer stuff." She bounced experimentally. "Definitely high quality."

Erik sat down beside her, pleased with his purchase. He was even more pleased when Christine snuggled up against him and leaned her head on his shoulder. She folded her feet underneath her and wrapped her arm casually around his. They were both wearing short sleeves – her soft skin pressed against his sweetly. It was such a little thing; most men would never have noticed. Erik was not most men. _Soon we'll be living together,_ he thought, and this time it didn't seem nearly as improbable.

"So. I was thinking today about what you said." He looked down at her quizzically. "You know, the whole thing about how hiding has worked so well for you that you supported my decision to do the same?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"I'm not a stupid girl, Erik. I got your point, even before you completely destroyed my heart with the Adagio."

"I didn't mean to..."

"But you did; you knew precisely how I would take it...and that's fine." She lifted his hand and kissed it tenderly. "It just shows how well you know me. Well, I've been thinking about that, and about how much I've been performing recently, and I've decided that I might be willing to go back to the Conservatory."

"Really?" Erik turned to face her and grabbed her free hand.

"Really. But there are two conditions. Two completely immutable conditions."

"And they are...?" Erik was nervous. Clearly, this was going to involve him. He'd already made up his mind that he would stand with her through whatever might come,but he'd hoped he could do his supporting from home.

"The first is that you have to go with me to Appleton."

"Appleton?"

"Appleton, Wisconsin. Home of the distinguished Lawrence Conservatory, and the place I will have to go if I am to complete my performance degree there."

Erik slid down on the couch. Wisconsin! That would mean planes and airports, rental cars, theaters, audiences...

"If you didn't like that one, you are really going to hate this one: you have to continue performing with me in the parks. I think we should do a floating rotation and play in a different park every week. It's so much fun, and it definitely gives me something to work towards. You know, motivation to practice."

"Christine, I hardly think this is fair..."

"Oh, I don't know. You were the one who set the first conditions for certain actions in this relationship, as I recall. Turn about's fair play, and all that."

He just shook his head slowly, his face the picture of misery.

Christine wasn't ready to give up. For once, she felt positive that she knew the best course of action, and she was determined to follow it through. Now she had to convince him, if they were to move forward together, because she was not about to move forward alone.

"We're both terrified – we're both scarred. Neither of us will ever amount to anything without the other." She waited until he looked up to meet her eyes. "It seems that the world is intent on opening its doors for me, but I won't go through them without you. I'll serve coffee and sesame bagels for the rest of my days. I'm not trying to guilt you into this, Erik. I'm just telling you the truth. I'm a coward, but when you are with me, I'm not afraid of anything."

"That's beautiful Christine." She could barely hear him. "That's beautiful, and you've made me immeasurably happy." He looked _anything_ but happy. "But have you considered that having me by your side could hold you back? I told you that freakishness is a communicable disease; have you thought that people might not give you a chance just because I'm with you?"

"They will. This article proves it. Play it right and that mask could become your trademark. Have _you_ ever considered _that? _You can use that stupid thing to your advantage. People _love_ a mystery. A tall, mysterious, masked man who can charm anyone with his perfect voice and flawless musicianship might draw people, not repulse them. "

Erik stared at her. "Even if you were anything close to right, they would eventually want to see. And that can never happen."

"No. And that's where the mystery would come in. _Unsolved_ mystery. But we aren't talking about that right now. You want me to go back to the conservatory. _I_ want me to go back to the Conservatory. But I cannot possibly go without you. Same thing for the park. So please, just try."

"Of course I'll do it, Christine." Erik's gaze was trained on the far wall. He couldn't look at her now; she might see too clearly the angry resignation in his eyes. "Don't you know yet that there's nothing I would not do for you? No matter what happens, no matter what it costs me; if you ask it of me, I'll do it."

He started to rise from the sofa, but was stopped by a new sensation. It was something he'd never felt before and something he'd never imagined he might feel. Her cool fingers rested lightly on his cheek -his bare cheek. She was moving slowly and carefully, trying her best not to hurt him. She straddled his lap, her palms cupping his ruined face, light as a breeze.

"Do you think it is any different for me? I'd lay down my cello and never look back, if it were you who asked". Christine leaned down and kissed him once on the lips, lightly. "You've never asked anything of me, except that I sing...but if you did, I'd do it in an instant."

"You're touching me." The deadpan remark was strangely incongruous to her passionate declaration of love.

"Am I hurting you?" She started to take her hands away, but he stopped her by taking her wrists gently in his hands.

"No... you're touching me. My face." He closed his eyes and his voice dropped to a whisper. "It doesn't hurt at all. It feels wonderful...but you're touching my face and you...don't mind. I could always see it before, in your eyes, that it bothered you. Even after you told me you loved me, I could see it."

Christine loosed her wrists from his encircling fingers and returned her hands to his face. Now that she knew she wasn't hurting him, the last of her discomfort fell away. It was just Erik, now, and this was just Erik's face. He was right; until this precise moment, it _had_ bothered her. She ran her thumbs over his cheeks, which were now wet. She kissed his forehead, cheeks, and eyes slowly, lovingly - and sincerely- before arresting his eyes with hers.

"And now? What do you see now?"

"Peace." He reached up and wiped the tears she hadn't even been aware of from her face. "Look at us: crying together like a couple of old women watching a Hallmark commercial. Weren't we having an argument? Shouldn't we get back to that?"

"Never. Tomorrow I will call Lawrence. Just sit with me while I do that much – I can't really ask for more."

"You can, but you won't have to." He chuckled softly. "So. You think I could cut a mysterious figure?"

"Indubitably."

"Let's have dinner, and then I am going back to my bedroom and change." He kissed her firmly and shifted her off his lap. "I am going to create your mysterious masked companion and make you fall in love with the mask all over again."

They sat down to the dinner he'd prepared – a delicious spinach salad with blackened chicken. Christine couldn't stop staring at Erik. His eyes were sparkling, he was smiling to himself. She'd never seen him wolf down food quite so fast. He finished well ahead of her, jumped up and ran to his bedroom.

The man who emerged half an hour later bore no resemblance to the skulking, diffident man who'd hidden behind his mask and beneath his hood. Before her now stood a tall, confident, refined gentleman in a black tuxedo, complete with wing-tip shoes, black cumberbund, and a black fedora tilted jauntily over one eye. His hair was neatly combed back and gelled smooth. The mask seemed nothing more than an accessory. Christine's jaw dropped and her face flushed deep crimson.

"My god, Erik...you're...you're..." she was unable to finish the sentence.


	39. Bravery

**A/N:** There has been some concern regarding the future of Erik and Christine's relationship Before the story progresses any further, I would like to say a few things. 1)For many people it is a good idea to wait until marriage to live with a significant other. I support and applaud that decision. 2)For many other people, it is a good decision to livetogether before marriage. Which isthe more moral decision, I will leave up to the individual.If anyonefeels the need/desire to discuss morals further with me, I'd be very happy to do so - my email is on my profile.

**Bravery**

"I'm going to assume that's a positive reaction?" he asked, executing a quick turn to show her all angles. "When Nadir's son died, he asked me to sing at the funeral. He bought this outfit for me, minus the fedora. It's the only time I ever performed in public – until you."

"Tell me about Nadir. You've mentioned him before, but we never really discussed him."

Erik grinned. Nadir was an interesting topic. "You know he was my music teacher, and you know he is a dear family friend. I suppose you could say that he is a father, best friend, confidant and therapist all rolled into one."

"He's very important to you...I wonder if he'd like me."

"He has been a lifeline – 'a light when all other lights have gone out'." Erik smiled. "I think you are insinuating that the two of you should meet, are you not?"

"Maybe."

"He'd be pleased to see what a gentleman I've turned out to be."

Christine stood up and circled him slowly. "You certainly look the part, but can you act it in public?"

"If you are the lovely lady on my arm? I think I can find a way."

She nodded, fingering the lapel of his dress jacket. "I'd only detract from the overall effect, I think."

"Oh no, my dear. You will also need a costume. That black skirt will do for a start, but you need an elegant shirt – something fitted. And some jewelry. For your skin tone...pearls, I think." He touched her hair. "You don't have to be pretty, Christine, just dignified."

Christine laughed nervously. "Erik, I don't have the money for all this."

"But I do." She started to protest, but his finger touched her lips. "You've done your part. Let me do mine, so that I don't feel like the lamprey to your shark." He winked at her mischievously. "Now, you were saying something about a rotating schedule?"

Christine sat down at the table. "Do you have paper handy?" Erik brought her paper and a pencil and she began to make a list of the prettier parks around the Seattle area. "Interlaken is my favorite, but there are so many. I thought maybe four of these? One per week? Same time and same general location."

"I see you included Carkeek park. That's...we should definitely do that one."

"Bellevue is gorgeous. The reflecting pool would make a great staging area."

"And Alki Beach. Wow. That was easier than I thought." She rewrote those four park names at the bottom of the page. "Ok. Time? Bess will let me have one regular day off per week if I ask. Especially for this. And you...your schedule is pretty...flexible, right?"

"Very delicately put, my dear. Yes. Any day you like is fine with me." Erik stood directly behind her chair, his hands on her shoulders. "You seem to have an affinity for Saturdays."

"One o'clock?"

"Absolutely." Erik combed her hair with his fingers, noting how easily it smoothed under his touch. "Speaking of time, I believe you should get going. It's nearly nine o'clock. You and I have a phone call to make tomorrow."

Christine stood reluctantly. She folded the paper and put it in her pocket. "I don't want to go. It's a childish thing to say, but I really don't want to go home to my lonely, silent apartment."

"Ah, but your cello is there and so is your flute. Go home and practice my dear. Rest." Somehow, she'dappeared in his arms.

"I will." She tilted her head up for a kiss and walked towards the door. In the doorway she paused and turned back. "Goodnight, Erik. You certainly do cut a very...dashing.. figure in that outfit. But you were very wrong about one thing. I still hate the mask."

--- - ---- ----- --- ----- ----- --- --- ------- -- ------ --- -- ----- - - - --------- -- - -

Meg filled the mug with steamed milk and cocoa. She passed it to Christine, who passed it to the customer, politely inquiring whether he would like whipped cream, nutmeg, or cinnamon on that. The man replied that he would love some whipped cream and cinnamon on top. Christine lifted her hand to shake the cinnamon, and Meg saw a folded piece of white paper fall from her pocket. Before Christine finished her transaction with the customer, the paper was tucked neatly into Meg's own pocket.

Christine bit her lips and tried not to laugh. Meg was even more curious than she; there was no way Meg would ever pass up the temptation of The Mysterious Falling Note. _Now she'll go to the back, peruse it, maybe make a copy, and then come back and say..._

_"_Hey, Miss Chris. I found this on the floor. Is it yours?" Meg handed the schedule back to her. "Thanks! I would have been looking for that all over." Christine tucked the paper back in her pocket. "So, when are we going to get together again? I haven't spent a full evening with you in a long time."

"That's because you're always with the Masked Wonder. But, hey, it's cute to see you so in love." Meg's wryinflections belied her words.

"I can't help but notice your tone isn't exactly fond...is there something you don't like about him?"Christine asked, feeling entirely sneaky. She knew exactly why Meg was upset with Erik, but she wanted to see how deeply Meg would be willing to dig her hole.

"Oh, it's nothing. He just..." Meg fumbled, looking for a good explanation. "Maybe I'm just jealous of all the time he gets to spend with you."

"Oh, come on now, you get me every day we work."

From there, the conversation descended into friendly pass-the-time banter. Christine wanted Meg to think that she'd gotten away with the schedule-heist, and Meg wanted no further discussion of her feelings about Erik. It wasn't that she disliked him, necessarily, but she definitely questioned his commitment to Christine. After all, if he _truly_ loved her, he'd help her realize her potential.

The afternoon shift arrived, releasing the two friends to the warm, wet day. Meg offered to walk Christine home, but Christine demurred, as expected.

"I'm going to Erik's...he's going to help me make _a call_." Christine shot Meg a look that warned her not to make a public display of the two of them.

"A Call? _The_ Call?" When Christine nodded, Meg grabbed her in a bear hug. "Good for you, Miss Chris. Good for you. You'll beat me with your backpack if I squeal, but just know that intense inner-squealing is going on as we speak."

"I thought it might. Save it until I call you back. If there's good news we'll go running with outer-squealing aroudn the block. Ok?"

"Ok." Meg hugged Christine again, then skipped off down the street. Her friend was finally coming around. Maybe Erik was good for her after all.

--- - ---- ----- --- ---- --- - - --- ---- - - --------- - -- -- ---- --- --- --- -- ---- -- ---- - - -

Christine sat on the black suede couch, staring at her cell phone as though it might suddenly explode in her hand. Erik sat next to her, one arm around her waist. Every few seconds he'd give her a little squeeze. The Lawrence Conservatory Dean of Students number was already on the screen. One touch of the SEND button, and Christine would be well on the road to facing her greatest fear.

"I can't do it, Erik. You do it." Her eyes had a flat gleam and her hands were shaking.

"You can do it. Just put your thumb on the button. Don't push it, just set your thumb on it." He waited until her thumb hovered right over the button and then tapped her thumb down. She shot him a drop-dead look, to which he could only shrug. He gestured at the phone, which was ringing.

"Lawrence Conservatory, Dean's office. May I help you?"

"Yuh...er..yes. I mean. Um." Christine looked at Erik to gather strength. She cleared her throat and began again. "This is Christine Daae. Dr. Corringer has been trying to contact me for...quite some time now."

"Of course. Ms Daae. I'll see if he is in. One moment." classical music began to play softly in the back ground. Christine looked up to Erik and mouthed _I'm on hold. _Erik responded by kissing her cheek and giving her a cheesy thumbs-up.

"Miss Daae?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm transferring your call. Thank you."

The phone emitted three high-pitched beeps, and then a man's nasal voice answered.

"Christine! It is delightful to hear from our star cellist. How _have_ you been?"

"Ummm...it's nice to talk to you again, too." Christine felt the air thicken around her. She felt as though she was speaking unbearably slowly. "I...was...considering...your offer. Is it...still...on.. the table?"

"Of course, Christine, of course. The next concert in in two months. June 16th. Usual time, usual place. Do you think you can make that date?"

"Yes. I can. I mena, I will. Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Dr Corringer. I am in your debt."

"We will have your name on the program as a special guest. I would give you all the details of when to arrive and where to go, but I bet you already know them. Do you have any idea what piece you will be playing?"

"Would an original composition be admissible?"

"Not normally, no. Is this your own work?" The sound of a pencil flying over paper echoed across the connection.

"It is."

"I will make you no promises, but if you send a recording of the piece, along with sheet music and title to me, I will have the board review it and get back to you as soon as possible. Can you do that?"

Christine nodded, and then realized that Dr. Corringer could not see her head bobbing. "Yes. That's more than fair."

"I am glad you called, Miss Daae. We have been worried about you. And again, we apologize for that dreadful incident. Certain guidelines have been put in place to assure that nothing of the sort _ever_ happens again."

"Thank you. Expect a recording from me soon."

"I look forward to it. Have a good afternoon, Christine."  
"Goodbye." Christine pushed the last word out, flipped her phone closed, and then collapsed into Erik's arms, groaning, "And that was just the phone call! Crud! Erik, my heart is going to leap out of my chest and do the Charleston across your living room floor."

"It's hardwood," He hugged her. "Maybe we could take lessons from it – I don't know how many more times I can waltz..."


	40. You know you're loved when

**You Know You're Loved When...**

Christine giggled into the hollow of his shoulder. "I don't know. Bodily organs may dance very differently from the way we do..."

"Now." Erik took one of her hands into his and began gently massaging it, as the nurses in the hospital had done for him sometimes after a procedure. "Tell me what the arrangements are. I heard something about using your own composition..."

"There is a performance on June sixteenth. We'd have to arrive in Appleton the day before. These concerts are always held at seven-thirty pm. I'd be listed as "a special guest", which is very nice. I'd perform, stand for evaluation the following day, and hopefully that would be that." She sat back on the sofa with a comfortable sigh. "That's lovely, Erik. I may force you to do that every day for the rest of our lives. But yes. I want to perform the piece I wrote fr you. Normally, that would be strictly verboten, but apparently they are willing to make a great many concessions to me. They want the score, the title, and a recording. And my guess is that they'll need it within the week."

The right hand was warm and tingling; not an bit of its anxious chill remained. Erik traded the warm hand for the cold one and went to work again. The strength and flexibility of her hands delighted him. So many women had soft, tiny, useless hands. These were strong, capable hands, filled with power and purpose and talent. The nails were clipped very short and neat, like his own, to keep them from interfering with fingering. He knew which muscles were built up by fingering and which by bowing, and he knew which tendons were likely to revolt from overuse if not babied.

"That's an awful hurry, considering that you have never bothered to put even the basic score down."

This evinced another agonized groan from Christine. "Terrible confession time: I hate writing notation. Despise it. I'm not terribly talented at it and I tend to leave out important things like the key and the tempo."

"Which is just one more reason why..." Erik kissed her hands , then as he rose form his comfortable seat, risked stealing a couple more kisses on her wrist and forearm as well, "...you are so lucky to have a wonderful fellow like me." He went to his desk and rifled through one of the stacks of papers. "Here we are. But I took a liberty. I added the violin counterpoint. The cello melody line looked so lonely there by itself."

Christine was virtually dancing around him by this time, trying to see what he'd done. "You're too wonderful for words. Seriously. Let me see."

Erik's mouth twitched in rising laughter. He'd never really had the chance to be a kid – watching Christine give way to giddiness woke something within him. He wondered exactly how difficult the Charleston might be. "Hold on, hold on. You said they want a recording. Well, over here – as though you'd never noticed – we have my personal recording studio." He fussed with the stack of machines and microphones for a moment. "All we need..."

"...is a drummer, for people who only need a beat?" Christine poked him gently in the ribs as she teased.

"No. Silly girl. All we need are instruments and we're ready to go. Shall we?"

Christine mocked his formal tone by dropping a deep curtsy. "After you, maestro!"

He bowed in return, "Talent before beauty, my love. You go ahead." She swished down the hallway with her nose in the air.

Soon, the air of playfulness was gone. Two very serious artists huddled over the sound equipment, allowing nothing less than perfection to be committed to tape. The finished product Christine dropped in the mailbox two hours later was a fifteen minute work of art.

---- - - -- ----- -- -------- -- - ------------- - ------ - -- ------- --- - -- - - -- - - - - --

As promised, Christine called Meg, who came rushing over to bring celebration cookie dough and a bottle of Solitude – one of the best rich, red wines ever to grace Christine's palate. There was a great deal of squealing, both external and internal before Meg began to calm down.

"I'm so glad he could make you do this..." She had claimed the papasan for her own. Christine lounged comfortably on the floor, playing her flute softly and reflecting that she had not done enough breath training recently.

"He didn't _make_ me do anything. He just..." she tapped the spit valve a couple times. "He's impossible to explain. Erik would never _make_ me do anything; in this case, he showed me the wisdom of one choice by contrasting it sharply with another. Somehow, he can convince me to open my eyes to things I've never considered without making the slightest argument."

"I wish I knew how he does it. Have you given any thought to what you will wear? None of your old things from those days will fit. You haven't been a size 18W for a long, long time." Meg spooned a large gob of cookie dough from the wrapper and shoveled it in her mouth. "No thanks you me, I guess. What are you now?"

"A fourteen."

"And I bet you have barely updated your wardrobe since I dragged you out that day."

"Not a whit. You should talk to Erik. _He_ was babbling something about pearls." In truth, Christine was beginning to think a little shopping trip might be in order. "I don't think he was talking about plastic ones, either."

"You can't afford real pearls!"

"That's what I said, and _he_ said, 'y_ou've done your part. Let me do mine...' _He starts talking in that voice and I can't begin to argue. He just sounds so damnably _reasonable_."

"If the man wants to buy you pearls, girl, you let him. It's not like you aren't worth it." Meg stood up a trifle unsteadily and walked over to Christine's pathetic wardrobe. "Let's see what you do have. Hmm...drab, drab, drab, boring, boring, -paisley, Christine? - boring, frumpy...Ah, here's that skirt I forced you to buy. Ok. I am staying over tonight. In the morning, you are going to fix me scrambled eggs and toast, and then I am taking you out shopping for your performance get up." Meg dug in her purse and waved a credit card in the air. "Let a man drape you in jewels if he wants to, but _never_ let him pick your clothes. _That_ is what best friends are for."

It took five hours and nine different stores, but Meg was finally satisfied with the outfit they'd put together. Even through the queasiness of a mild hangover, Christine looked good – better than good. A tailored black dress blouse, layered nicely over a lace chemise, and loosely belted with a silver chain drew attention to Christine's steadily reappearing waistline. Her full black skirt flowed smoothly down to her ankles. The sensible maryjanes had been replaced with snappy black highheels that strapped in a coil around her ankles, accentuating their shapeliness.

"From what you've said your have some accessories soon enough...especially after he sees yo in this. The hair needs something," Meg muttered, wrapping a few sections around her fingers and squinting at it critically. "So does the face, no harm meant..."

"The hair always needs something," Christine rolled her eyes. "and none taken."

"When is the last time you had a trim?" The question was obviously rhetorical. Meg was already hauling Christine down the street towards the Chakras beauty spa.

"We don't have an appointment..." It wasn't much of a defense, and Meg blew through it easily.

"_We_ don't _need_ an appointment. I know Marcus. I know Stephanie. I knew Kevin and Lori and..."

"Ok. Ok. I'm not going to fight you this time. It's your debt, not mine."

With a grin, Meg dragged her friend into the hair-spray scented hallows of the salon where a legion of trendy beauticians descended on the pair with hungry smiles.

-- - - - - --- - --- -- - -- - - -- --- - - - - - - - - - - - -Chapter ends here--- -- -- -- - - - - - - --- --- -- - --- - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - ---- -- -- - -

**A/N:****I'm putting this at the bottom this time, to avoid interrupting the reading experience. **

_**Monmaskedange**:_ The Charleston is a form of Swing dancing. Much fun.

_**Christa Q**.: _ Thank you for the email. I hope my response helped.

**_Everyone Else:_** Please review my quality, my believability, my continuity, my originality – even try to guess what is about to happen...but I very gently and respectfully ask that you not try to tell me what to write – or not to write.

As I've said before, I appreciate values that are different from my own. However, this is a writing forum, not a philosophy parlor or a pulpit. If you want to talk morality and philosophy with me, I am happy to do so – in emails. I'd be overjoyed, actually, and we'd probably have some lively repartee.

However, the story is going to be written the way it is playing out in my head. I will not compromise my writing for any reason. Period. Not to make anyone happy or to avoid making anyone angry. (and, yes, I'm a parent – a very good one) So if the Christine in my head wears a coconut bra and does the hula to the tune of "One More Time", that's what's going to happen in the story.

Rest assured that should the content take a turn towards the adult, I will up the rating and mention the change in the summary.

I hope that you, as writers yourselves, would also refuse to change your story for the comfort of others (for example: if someone were to say that praying in stories made them uncomfortable, or Geriks, or scenes with boiled eggs, or pink poodles...)

I know this will drive away some of my readers – even though my writing is never explicitly sexual (I'll never go beyond R-rated material, and even that's rare). That's ok. I've valued your feedback up until now, and I'm a better author because of it. IF you do choose to abandon this story because our values differ, I hope you find other wonderful stories to enjoy and thank you for reading. If you stick with me despite challenges to your comfort-zone, thank you for sticking around and I hope you continue to check me on those aspects I listed at the top of this little rant.

Long Live Free Speech.


	41. The Khan

**The Khan**

_Must...not...rub...face. Must...not...muss hair. _These were Christine's sole thoughts on the ride out to Erik's place. Meg had bundled her onto the bus by main force after extracting a promise that she would go straight to Erik's and "show off a little". Christine sighed and settled back, feeling entirely unlike herself. The Chakras' crew had had a field day with her, applying scissors, curlers, gels, tweezers, and what felt like a bucket of makeup. They'd reassured her that it was a 'light' makeup job, but for a person unaccustomed to face-paint, it still felt thick.

"Huuuuh..." was what Erik said, when he opened the door. He'd intended intended to greet Christine with a joking '_Hugs and kisses?"_, but his mental functioning was abruptly short-circuited.

Christine was in the process of blushing, but then she caught sight of movement in the apartment. A short, swarthy man in his late sixties or early seventies stood in the center of the room watching the scene at the door with amusement. His fingers were curled around the neck of Erik's violin – apparently he's been playing it.

Erik was still standing motionless in the doorway, working on a greeting. Christine gave him a quick hug, then approached the stranger with her hand extended. "You must be Nadir Khan. Pleased to meet you. I'm..."

"The brilliant, lovely, gentle guiding star that lights Erik's way." Smooth as velvet, Nadir took her hand and bowed. "His words of course. It's a pleasure to meet you, Christine Daae."

They regarded one another with an instant mutual appreciation. Each was thinking that _here at last_ was another person who had come to know and love Erik. It made them the only two members of a very exclusive club. Nadir still held Christine's hand in his; she stepped forward and hugged the old man tightly. Nadir understood: with that hug she was thanking him for being there first, for being a friend to the man she loved before she'd known him.

Erik had finally gathered his senses. "Do you two already know each other?"

Nadir laughed and walked over to pat Erik on the shoulder. "Not at all. Not at all. But we're very happy to have made one another's acquaintance."

The three spent a comfortable evening together. It was surreal to the older man to watch the younger couple cuddling on the sofa. He'd never imagined that any woman would love Erik; he never thought Erik would let any woman close enough. The two were clearly, deeply in love; it was beautiful, even if they weren't.

Nadir embarrassed Erik with stories of his childhood ranging from funny (a six year old Erik used medical tubing to tie the door of his hospital room shut to keep his tutor out) to heart-breaking (the disappearance of his mother). Christine embarrassed Erik with vivid descriptions of his gourmet meals and his romantic waltzing. Feeling a bit on the spot, Erik switched the attention to Christine and her upcoming performance at Lawrence Conservatory.

"She will stun them." Erik squeezed her shoulders proudly.

Nadir put on a doubtful face. "I don't know. I haven't heard anything yet..."

That was the cue they'd been waiting for. Nadir was used to Erik's genius on the violin, he'd heard the man's full baritone many times, but when Christine's cello joined the violin and her sweet soprano joined his dark voice the old musician wondered if he hadn't fallen into a hidden corner of Heaven.

After the recital, Erik excused himself to make dinner. Nadir took the cello from Christine and leaned it on its stand.

"My dear girl, you and I must take a walk around the grounds."

"Hmm?"

Nadir quirked an eyebrow. "While Erik is otherwise occupied."

"Ooooh."

Christine followed Nadir out the door. Once out of the building, he began to walk and talk at a leisurely pace. "Erik has told me a great deal about you, my dear, but he has told me very little about your relationship. He can be a very secretive man..."

"I know."

"So I thought I ought to make sure of a few things. For your sake, yes, but more for his." Nadir paused, considering the wisdom of this conversation. Was he about to cost Erik the love of his life? "How do you feel about him?"

Christine laughed. "You can't tell? I'm head-over-heels for him."

"And have you told him?"

"Of course. He really _hasn't_ told you anything, has he..." Christine was a bit taken aback. The Erik she saw with Nadir was a completely different man from the one she knew. Nadir's Erik was terse and secretive, disconnected and dispassionate. _But he was that way with you, too..until he heard your music._

"Not a thing. When you told him you loved him...how did he react?"

"He told me he loved me too. These are pretty strange questions to be asking a stranger, you know." Christine quirked an eyebrow and waited for a clear explanation.

"So, he believed you. That must mean..." Nadir stopped and turned to face Christine squarely. "Have you seen him without the mask?"

She nodded, finally understanding the man's concern. "Yes. I've forbidden him to wear it in my presence. I hate that thing."

Nadir stood there for a moment, blinking. "Pardon me, my dear, but it seems to me that you just said you forbade Erik to wear his mask...and he obeys you?"

"I did, and he does. How am I supposed to kiss him with that dreadful thing on his face? Have you have tried the mask on, Mr. Khan, and felt what a prison it is? Do you know what the world looks like with dark shadows constantly in your view?"

Nadir could find no words. He stroked Christine's flushed cheek with a grandfatherly hand. "Dear child," he murmured. "No wonder he loves you so much. So you have seen him. How did you get the mask from him?"

"He offered. I wanted to kiss him. He wouldn't let me until I knew..you know."

"How did you feel when you saw? The truth now, I can read lies easily..."

"I almost vomited. I had to leave the room." Her hand briefly covered her eyes in shame. "But I came back."

"And did you still kiss him?" Nadir's tone was doubtful.

"Actually, the first time, he kissed me. I kissed him later. His face is terrible, Nadir, but I've made myself learn that it's just his face." Christine sighed. "You know I am only telling you these things because he calls you his greatest friend and mentor – his words, of course."

Nadir chuckled, but then his demeanor darkened. "So you say you love him, you've seen his face – have you seen his temper?"

"I..." Christine thought about that day on the bus, the speed and strength of his hand and the fierce gleam in his eyes. "I almost have. I've seen a glimpse."

"You know he has a criminal record?'

"I know he punched a guy in the face for trying to take his mask..."

"Yes. One punch, Christine. One punch and he broke the boy's nose and fractured his cheek. He was knocked out cold. And that isn't the only time – it's just the first time they charged him. I don't believe he ever lost a fight, after the first one, and he has had many fights; the boy answered _every _ insult with a punch, after a while. He sent several young men to the emergency room. After his time in jail – and they did keep him in his own cell when they saw his face – he moved into that apartment, declaring that the entire human race was beneath him." Nadir stared off at the lights of cars passing on the street, pointedly ignoring Christine's pained expression as she tried to sort out the violent Erik from the gentle man she'd fallen in love with. "Erik went through...a very difficult time...when he first left the hospital. He tried to be normal. He tried to fit in. People just wouldn't have him. With the mask he was too strange; without it he was frightening. Even college kids teased him mercilessly – you'd think they'd know better. But he says you know a little something about that," Nadir paused, waiting for a response.

"Erik is helping me past that, though. He's coming with me to Appleton..." she trailed off, thoughts of how difficult _that _journey would be for him flooding her mind. .

"Nine years in that apartment, Christine. And then you." Nadir turned around and began walking back towards Erik's building. "You have saved him, pulled his feet from the flames of Hell and dragged him back to the light. He's more devoted to you than you can imagine, and he's dearer than a son to me. So you'll have to forgive a prying old man for trying to ascertain your intentions; I couldn't bear to see him hurt."

"Mr Khan, may I ask _you_ a question?" They were at the door of the building.

"Certainly."

"Why does he still wear his mask around you?" The question was sharp, probing.

Nadir looked away as he answered, "I've never learned that lesson you've taught yourself so quickly, and he can tell. That's another thing, dear, just remember that Erik can always tell."

By the time they reached the apartment door, both were wearing pleasant expressions again, but Erik knew something serious had passed between them. He could tell.


	42. Dinner and a Show

**A/N: lack of updates over the last two days was brought to you by ffnet. Finally, I am able to upload again. I have my Epidemiology midterm tomorrow, so the inability to post chapters probably contributed quite a bit to my ability to study. The universe is marvelous that way. **

**Dinner and a Show**

The three sat down to dinner, Nadir taking the computer chair because it was the most comfortable, and began to eat in silence. Erik's culinary talent was to blame for the quiet – it's difficult to have conversation with a full mouth. It was simple baked chicken with snapped beans and scalloped potatoes, but each item was positively savory.

Once he'd swallowed a few mouthfuls, Erik sat back and surveyed his guests. Neither was meeting his gaze; their attention was firmly fastened to their plates. Normally, this would be complimentary to a cook, but he was suspicious of what had passed between them.

"All this chewing is riveting, really," he said sarcastically, "but could one of you swallow and pause long enough to explain your simultaneous disappearance?"

Christine held a finger in the air as the chewed the last delicious essence from a bite of chicken. "I was being given the third degree by Mr. Khan."

"Really." Erik turned his dark gaze to his old friend, who pointed to his bulging cheeks and made no reply.

"Yes," was all Christine would offer before taking her next bite.

"And what did you ask her, Khan?" Erik's eyes shone with a dangerous light.

"Let him eat, Erik. He was just looking after your interests." Christine reached across the table and squeezed Erik's hand. "It's what best friends do. Remember Meg?"

Erik rolled his eyes and picked up his fork. "Remember? I wish I could forget..." but the look he shot Nadir was distrustful. "I'd still like to know what..."

"On to more pertinent things. How long is Mr. Khan going to be in town?" Christine gave a watery, apologetic smile as she interrupted.

"I shall be here through next Sunday, I believe."

"Then you will have to join us in the park." Christine grinned. "You taught Erik, you must be an amazing musician."

Erik looked up sharply. "Christine. No. I don't think Nadir..."

"I'd be honored."

Christine shook her head. "_We'd_ be honored. In fact, I think you should pick the music. I can play flute or cello -and the newspaper apparently believes I can sing. Erik...he can play anything under the sun. So, if you pick it, we will play it."

"Christine! No!" His voice was entirely horrified. "You don't know what kind of music he likes!"

Nadir wiped his mouth with his napkin and smoothed his goatee. "Hmm...what should I choose. With only two days to practice, I have to make sure it's something you kids can handle."

Erik harumphed and folded his arms across his chest.

"Erik? What kind of music does he like? It can't possibly be too bad."

"Jazz. The blues. And when he plays them, he requires..."

"Erik to sing." Nadir's predatory grin startled Christine before she began to laugh.

"Oh, don't laugh, Christine. I told him about you, Miss Any-Register."

Christine's smile melted away. "Oh no. Nono. I can't sing jazz."

"Too late," Nadir proclaimed. "I have already decided on our playlist."

Dinner ended uneasily. Nadir borrowed paper and pen and wrote his list down, along with which instruments each person should be prepared to play. He set the list on the table with the air of a king making a decree.

"You might want to start working tonight, kids. I shall return tomorrow for a bit of rehearsal with you." He lifted his walking stick from its place behind the door. "Miss Daae, it truly was a pleasure. I'm sure you'll make Lady Day proud." He bowed, and was gone.

Christine and Erik barely replied; they were poring over the list. "Well," he proclaimed. "It looks as though you will be spending quite a bit of time in your lower range. We've been working on a bright tone – that will be completely inappropriate here. I'm going to have to show you how to put some smoke and grit in your voice."

"We have a duet," she pointed to the last song. "_The Moment I _Saw_ You_? Erik, Nadir certainly has an interesting sense of ..."

"Of irony. I could have warned you of that. But before we get into his germane choices...tell me all about your little chat with my good old friend." Erik made himself comfortable on the sofa with his arms still crossed over his chest.

"Would you do me a favor?" She gestured at her face. He nodded and slipped the mask off. "That's better." She settled down beside him in the half-lotus position, facing him. "First of all, why do you think I should tell you what we talked about, if we went out of our way to talk about it without you there?"

The bluntness and rationality of her question caught him off-guard.

"We've never kept secrets from each other..." he began, but the shake of her head stopped him.

"Maybe not, but there's plenty you've carefully skimmed over. I don't blame you. No point in digging up ancient history." She leaned over and pried one of his hands away from his chest. "But all he wanted was to make sure I knew what I was getting into."

"Getting into?" Erik snorted. "What am I, the Le Brea tarpits?"

"No." This was quickly becoming uncomfortable. "But you certainly have your sticky points. He wanted to make sure I knew those points. He doesn't want you getting hurt."

"And what are my sticky points?" Erik tried to invest this question with a wry and sarcastic humor.

"Your temper, for one thing." She turned his hand over in hers and rubbed her thumbs over his knuckles. "Apparently you risked your ability to play your violin quite a few times."

"That's in the past..."

"But it's not. You still have that temper. You just locked yourself away. Nine _years_, Erik? You've been in this apartment for _nine years_?"

There was a long silence. Erik studied the movement of her hands on his. "It's better than what I was up against out there."

"He also wanted to know if I'd seen your face. He was surprised when I said I had." She was cautiously working her way around to what she really wanted to know. "He wanted to know my feelings about it. I told him that I've asked you not to wear it around me."

"I'm sure that shorted a couple of his circuits." Again, Erik tried for sarcasm, but achieved only bitterness.

"No. What 'shorted his circuits' was when I asked him why you still wear it in his presence." Christine waited. It had proved to be a sore point with Nadir; how would Erik respond?

Erik's expression softened. "Poor Nadir. He has asked me not to in the past, but when I take it off his eyes suddenly find urgent business in any area of the room that doesn't include me. You can't hold it against him, Christine."

"I don't. But I think you do." He shook his head in denial, but she pressed on. "Have you noticed how differently you behave with him? You are much colder and harder with him. He's known you your entire life, but you treat him like a business associate instead of a friend."

Erik shrugged. "I told you that you were different from anyone I've ever known. Speaking of different – you look amazing tonight. Your hair is...how did you get it to do that? And I've never seen your eyes look so...so...And your lips..."

Christine smiled. He was changing the subject with his usual heavy-handedness, but the compliments were doing her a world of good. "A good stylist and a talented aesthetician are a modern woman's mask, I suppose. I'm glad you like it. I intend to wear this on Saturdays." She stood up and spun in a circle to show off her newly-smooth curls. "I had to make _some_ effort at matching you. Can we practice that duet now?"

They spent two blissful hours practicing the setlist, until Christine's voice showed signs of fatigue. It amazed her that Erik's never seemed to tire or weaken. It was a perfect instrument, producing flawless sound hour after hour. She retired to the sofa to rest while he continued making notations and changes to the music to better adapt it to the performers and their instruments.

This was how Christine found herself in front of a crowd of hundreds testing out the silky, sultry tones of greats like Etta James and Lady Day. Nadir had coerced each of them into singing three separate songs and one duet– of his choosing. Each piece had to be re-arranged for their instruments, which turned out to be the only difficult part of their preparation. By the time they were tuning up on the park green, even Erik had to admit that they were a mean blues-jazz trio.

Christine sang "Slow Like Honey", What a Little Moonlight Can Do", and (with a biting pain that twisted the song's meaning and chilled the crowd) "It's Alright with Me." After each song, the crowd cheered a bit louder. When she bowed backwards to take up her cello, the flash of a camera dazzled her eyes even as the thunder of applause crashed over her. _A storm. We've literally played up a storm. _A smile played on her lips. _Wait 'til they hear _him

Erik stepped forward, his fedora tipped over his eyes so that he would not see the crowd. He opened with "The Sky is Crying" and when he finished, he realized the audience had doubled – maybe trebled – in size. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Nadir nodding slowly. Christine was looking at him with an expression that kindled a fire between them. Bolstered by his back-up, he turned back to the crowd. Slowly, he began to smile. "Lovin' in My Baby's Eyes" rolled through the crowd, making them smile, sway and lean against one another. He closed with Buddy Guy's "Sweet Little Angel." The crowd was deliriously clapping, hooting, screaming.

When Christine returned to Erik's side, they hushed expectantly. In rehearsal, the focus had been getting the harmonies perfected, along with tone and delivery. All that was done and past. Now, Erik and Christine joined hands and found their place on that silver cloud. "The Moment I Saw You" was a love song often sung by performers with no more than a nodding acquaintance with one another.

Performed by these two, it became something more than a feel-good wartime love song. Their peculiar circumstances invested every word with a deeper meaning. Their voices, perfectly complimentary, carried their love into the music. When the song ended, there was silence. No one in the audience dared breathe or move. The spell was cast; every spectator was held in its grasp, enthralled. Only Erik and Christine moved and they moved as in a dream. Later, some in the crowd would conjecture that the kiss was staged, only to be shouted down by their contemporaries. "No way," these wise observers said, "You can't stage love like that."


	43. What a Little Blues Can Do

**What a Little Blues Can Do**

Nadir began gathering together the instruments, preparing to leave. He saw trouble in the form of a man with a professional-looking camera and a woman with a microphone and perfectly beauty-shopped hair heading their way. Erik and Christine had not yet broken for air.

"Paparazzi!" He whispered urgently, but the couple were gone to a place where they could not be reached.

"Sir? Sir? I'm Zoe Bertrand, with the Seattle Times; entertainment division." The woman approached Nadir with her microphone, while the man trained his camera on Erik and Christine and began snapping pictures. They broke apart, suddenly realizing the world hadn't actually fallen away from them. Erik's grip on Christine's hand tightened painfully.

"No pictures," he growled dangerously, but Christine squeezed his hand harder than he was squeezing hers and kicked his ankle.

"Just look mysterious, Erik. It's your cover, remember?" she whispered. If he began assaulting the press, their little dream could turn into a nightmare quickly. None of the tenseness left him, but he contorted his face into something that he hoped passed for enigmatic neutrality.

Meanwhile, Nadir was happily chatting with the journalist.

"No, no. It's just the two of them. You might call me a friend of the family."

"They are family? Brother and sister?" She'd been trying to pry useful information from the old man, but he'd been well-drilled on their desire to maintain anonymity.

"Not at all. Not at all."

"Husband and wife? Friends?" She saw that they'd broken the kiss and hurried over to them. "You are the talk of all Seattle. Would you care to grant your fans an interview?"

"No," grumbled Erik, earning another swift kick from Christine.

"What he means," she amended, "is that we will be happy to answer a few questions, as long as we are not explicitly identified. That includes photos that reveal my face." The photographer began nervously checking his cache of photographs.

"Well then..." the woman looked down to her steno pad. "How long have you been performing together?"

"Only a few weeks, really. It's a rather new experience for both of us."

"Ah. And are you being paid for these performances – by the Parks and Recreation division, perhaps?" It was a question many burned to know. No one worked for free...so, who was paying these two?

"No one." Erik's tone was indignant. "We give you art, and all you ask about is the money?"

"You are performing for free, then?"

Christine beat Erik to the answer. She wanted to attract fans, not drive them away. "We love making music and want to share that love with everyone. Why should live music be reserved for those who can afford concert tickets?"

"Then what do you do in your daily lives? I'm sure our readers would be fascinated to know..."

"Ah-ah-ah," remonstrated Nadir, who had come to join in. "I believe the young woman just told you she didn't want to share identifying information."

A look of annoyance marred the reporter's pretty face. "Let her answer."

"No. He's right. If you have questions about the performance or the music we're happy to answer. Otherwise, we have a places to be."

"Well then." Ms. Bertrand shuffled through her notes. "Your performance this afternoon was entirely jazz and blues selections. I have a note here that at your last performance, you concentrated on classical. Is there a reason for the change."

"Ah, yes ma'am. That would be me. The youngsters allowed an old man the pleasure of choosing their material."

"And how long has each of you been playing?" She looked to Nadir first. He chuckled and tapped his temple.

"I'm an old, old man. Let's just say that I've been playing long enough."

She rolled her eyes and turned to Erik, who still had Christine's hand imprisoned in his. "And you, sir?"

"Thirty-two years." He smirked. "Give or take a decade or two, depending on the instrument."

In desperation, the reporter turned to Christine, who was regarding her sympathetically.

"I've been playing cello for nearly sixteen years. But I've only been singing for about six months."

Here was something report-worthy. "Really? That's very surprising. Who is your teacher?"

Christine nodded towards Erik, who was growing visibly agitated. "He is. And I've never had a kinder, more patient teacher."

Zoe Bertrand cast a doubtful eye over the grumbling, taciturn man. She decided to cut this interview short. She was unused to having to fight so hard for information; most up-and-coming musicians were anxious for the publicity.

"Do you intend to continue these Saturday concerts?" Her information came from Meg, who had gleefully handed over the complete schedule. The question was more for formality's sake.

"Absolutely." Christine nodded. "But we will split our time among four local parks, playing a different one each week. That way we will reach a broader audience."

"Where will you play next?" Again, she already knew, but form was form.

"Ah, that's what we _won't_ tell you. We hope to see a _different_ audience at each place."

"And does your group have a name? How may I refer to you?"

Erik, of all people, supplied this one. "Strange Noise," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse us..."

"Of course." The reporter and her photographer walked away feeling completely unsatisfied.

Nadir gathered up his belonging and gestured for his companions to do the same.

"If you thought that woman was a gadfly, wait until your adoring fans get here. Seeing the press held them off, but here they come."

He was right. Now that the interview was over, well-wishers and admirers were advancing, calling out to them. Erik groaned and began picking things up as quickly as possible. When he leaned down to pick up the cello, however, Christine got a glimpse of something different in his eyes. Triumph, and not a little pride. He was still acting the part of the ornery recluse, but she was no longer fooled.

They piled into Nadir's car, glad for the easy and direct transportation. Nadir and Christine raved all the way home about their overwhelming success. Nadir declared that he would have to join them for future performances. Christine agreed jubilantly. Erik said not a word. There was no thought in his mind of crowds, or music, or meddling reporters. He was replaying the moment when they'd kissed over and over in his mind.

Nadir left them at the door to the apartment building, saying he had some business he wanted to attend to in town. In truth, he'd seen the smoldering looks they'd been exchanging, and wanted to get out of the way before the fire broke out. Their lack of resistance to his departure reinforced his idea that he'd best drop in for a goodbye brunch tomorrow. After all, he hadn't created his setlist capriciously. Classical music was all very well, but in his opinion there was nothing quite so invigorating for a couple of repressed lovers as a good grinding dose of the blues

Once in the privacy of the apartment, Christine took the fedora and mask and tossed them aside unceremoniously. He lifted her easily in the air and twirled around before setting her down on the couch, where she promptly curled around him. The low fire that had been simmering between them all afternoon roared to life. Only when a need for oxygen compelled them did they separate, breathless and reeling.

"Erik?" Her voice held that purring, pleading tone that instantly broke through any defenses he might have had left.

"Yes?"

"May I borrow a long T-shirt and a robe?" Christine fingered the hem of her full skirt.

"Why? Haven't you got your own at home?" He was utterly confused.

"After today...after that kiss...and what we've been doing..." Christine groped for the right way to explain and came up dry. "I mean, do you _want_ me to go home?"

"No. I never want you to go home. Every time you walk out the door, it's a struggle not to chase you down and bring you back – caveman style." He walked back to his bedroom and returned with a huge T-shirt and a long terry-cloth robe. "If I'd known that all you needed was this..." He extended his offering to her, "I'd have started handing out casual wear long ago."

"I'll need more than this...I'll need blankets and a pillow."

"Oh. The sofa. Of course." Beating a hasty, if awkward, retreat he returned to his bedroom and came back with his blanket and pillow – he didn't have extras for guests.

Christine watched him with confusion for a moment, then smiled a slow, warm - and highly mischievous - smile. That she might intend to sleep on the sofa had not occurred to him, apparently. She took the T-shirt and robe to the bathroom and changed. Knowing Erik, he'd be sweating bullets over his little faux-pas. There was just enough of Meg in her to start pondering ways to play his self-consciousness to their mutual advantage.


	44. The Advantage

**A/N: One of the people I confer with about this writing project suggested that I explain some things to some anxious readers. 1)We will see Erik's temper; don't worry. I wouldn't have mentioned it earlier in the story if I didn't mean to bring it out at some point. Just remember, right now, there's nothing to anger him, no challenges. It's easy to be calm when life's smooth. 2) The issues with Erik's face and medical condition will keep resurfacing. This isn't an accident or an effort to drag the story on. It's a device to make the reader feel the uncomfortable sense of "won't this ever stop" that Erik feels. It's that way with many disabilities - it never goes away and it always seems to crop up at the worst of times. 3) And yes, "Strange Noise" is a reference to previous occurences. 4)For safety's sake, I've upped the rating. No, it's not at all explicit, but I'd rather not take the flak.  
**

**The Advantage**

Christine returned from the bathroom and piled the bedding neatly at one end of the sofa. She sat at the other end and crooked a finger to indicate she wished for him to sit beside her. Her smile was inviting, her eyes still darkly infused with the smoky jazz she'd sung. Erik hesitated – and not because he was shy.

She was sitting there in nothing but his T-shirt and a loosely tied robe. The shirt was the longest one he owned; it covered what a shirt and shorts would normally cover, but the look in her eyes, the way the soft cotton draped her thighs, and the way her bare legs were tucked up to one side made him doubt his ability to continue in a gentlemanly manner.

"Erik," she intoned, turning his name into something at once holy and sensual. "Come sit with me."

He sat next to her for a moment, but was unable to resist gathering her up onto his lap. She didn't object; she merely wriggled around into a more comfortable position with her left arm draped over his right shoulder. Moments later, her right hand was lazily unknotting his tie, which soon found a home near the fedora. That obstacle passed, she began unbuttoning his dress shirt at the same relaxed pace.

There was no doubt in Erik's mind that Christine loved him. After all, she'd seen him and was still with him. They'd made beautiful music together. Love was one thing. But the look she was giving him now as her deft fingers effortlessly freed button after button was not entirely a loving one. Love was certainly there, but there was something more - another taste, like red pepper in a savory stew.

He could believe that she loved him. This other thing, though, this spice... Starting in puberty, when he heard the giggly whispers of the young nurses talking about their handsome boyfriends, Erik had strictly disciplined himself to accept that he would never be the object of anyone's desire. But her hand was on his chest, and her eyes were fiery.

"You were beautiful today, Christine." She opened her mouth as if to protest. He closed it with a look. "Stunning." He glanced down to his arm wrapped around her chubby legs. "And if I stay here with you like this much longer I can't guarantee..." his hand lightly traced the soft curve of her knee and calf, suggesting the words he would not say.

Christine, in the meantime, had finished with his buttons. His half-open shirt revealed a pale, thin torso knotted with muscle. She allowed her hand to trace the ridge of his ribs around to his back. For the first time, she wondered how he'd kept in such good shape after nine years of self-imposed imprisonment.

It seemed a lifetime ago that he had first ventured to put his arms around her and told her that he'd never held a woman before. How far they'd come since then! By sheer physical appearance, Erik was far from desirable. However, she could no longer 'see' him solely in terms of face and body. His grace, the force of his personality, and (above everything else) his music, lent him an attraction less resistible than a mere handsome face and athletic build would have been.

The first fact still remained: he had never held a woman before her. Nearly forty years old, and the man was less experienced than most high-school boys. The thought was at once sweet and daunting.

She remembered his confession on the night she'd first seen his face,"_That was my first kiss, Christine. And this is my first date, with my first dance._" Each new experience they shared would be his first. In an epiphany that nearly froze her in place, Christine realized that she did not just want to be his first – she wanted to be his last, his only. She also wanted to savor each step on this intimate path with him, hurrying nothing. Slowly, suggestively, Christine slid his shirt from his shoulders at the same moment he untied the sash of her (his) robe.

In the midst of bliss, reality intruded abruptly. It was long past time for Erik to complete his nightly medication routine. The intense kissing had done nothing to soothe his condition. He'd ignored the low burning, not wanting to leave Christine's side for a moment. Suddenly, the electric sting flared to life, causing him to wince and his eyes to water.

"Erik? What's wrong?" Attuned to her lover's every move, the sudden change was immediately obvious to Christine.

"I'm sorry." He hurriedly set her to one side and stood up. "I have to..." but he was already in his bedroom, fumbling for the pills and soothing cream. It had been many years since he'd lapsed in his self-care enough to allow an attack of this magnitude. He would have asked himself _"Why now?"_ but he knew perfectly well why. Pleasure had pushed necessity from his mind, and he'd let it happen.

She was standing in the doorway – of course she'd followed him. "Don't come in here, Christine..." he warned, but it was too late. She had already turned on the light. She'd already seen his shaking hands failing to operate the child-proof cap on his medication.

"Here. Let me." The cap turned easily in her hands. She read the prescription and shook two into his waiting hand. She recognized the name of the medication; it was Neurontin – a powerful anticonvulsant also used for nerve pain. Without a word, he handed up the second bottle, this one containing low-dose morphine. She opened it as well, then rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water. By the time she returned, he'd already dry-swallowed the morphine.

Erik took the water without meeting her eyes. He didn't want her to see him like this, but he doubted she'd let him turn her out. The pills would not begin to take effect for many minutes, but when they did he'd pass out. Half the benefit of the combination of Neurontin and morphine (used only in the worst of times) was that it allowed him to sleep through some of the pain. He sat on the edge of his bed attaching the little black TENS unit and wishing she would go and leave him to his misery. This was private business; even as a child he had not allowed anyone near him when he was in pain.

"Christine, you don't need to stay. Go on and make yourself comfortable in the main room." Each word was like stinging nettles in his cheeks and forehead. "Once the meds kick in I'll be no good anyway."

Without a word, she turned and left. He marveled that she'd gone so easily – until she suddenly reappeared, his bedding in her arms. Soon, his bed was spread neatly. She took her place sitting at the head of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. With a little pushing and prodding, Erik was soon leaning back against her, his head cushioned comfortably on her chest. She was gently kneading his shoulders and neck, trying to ease the tension from them.

"Haven't you figured it out by now?" Her reproach was filled with compassion, but completely devoid of pity. "You don't have to go through any of this alone anymore."

The morphine began to kick in, gently detaching him from reality. "I've always done it alone. It's nothing I can't handle." His voice was disconnected, floating. He raised a hand to detach the TENS wires, but he'd waited too long – his coordination was shot. Pushing his hand back to his chest, Christine did it for him.

"This isn't the way I expected the evening to end..." he murmured dozily. The gentle, rhythmic kneading was helping the morphine and Neurontin to drag him under the gentle mist of unconsciousness.

She had to smile. "Me either."

His eyelids dragged themselves shut. Before he drifted away entirely, Erik managed one last question – one propriety would have prevented him from asking had his mind not been dulled by drugs.

"How attached _are_ you to your little studio apartment, anyway?"

He was already deeply asleep, but she answered anyway. "Not at all."


	45. Like Home

**Like home**

Nadir returned shortly after noon the next day to share a final meal and make his goodbyes. The door was opened, not by Erik, but by a very tired-looking Christine. She stepped aside to let him by, and he saw boxes and bags strewn about the previously spotless apartment.

"Hello, Nadir. Come on in...I'm just about to head back down for some more stuff."

"Moving in, my dear?" he asked, a little saucy pride in his voice. Nadir felt it was no coincidence that their moving in together so closely followed his choice of jazz and blues numbers. He remembered listening to Christine sing "Slow Like Honey" while Erik struggled against his libido to continue playing.

"Yes. We...could you hold the door?"

Nadir opened the door and watched with amusement as Erik staggered in, her seventeen inch computer monitor cradled in his arms. He carried it over and set it down beside his desk.

"Nadir. Hello." Erik caught his breath, then turned to Christine. "Ms. Coleridge said she was willing to stand with your things for another twenty minutes."

Christine rolled her eyes and began shambling slowly towards the door. "I'm going, I'm going..."

"Sit down, Christine. You look exhausted." Nadir grinned at her. "Erik and I will be your knights in shining armor and carry the rest of your belongings in, won't we..."

Erik nodded and headed for the door again. As he had done with Christine, Nadir was silent until the door closed behind them.

"She's moving in with you now?"

"Obviously, Khan." Erik was tired and irritable from his ordeal the night before.

"Well, what precipitated that?"

"It's a very long story, but it culminated last night." Erik nodded to the apartment manager who stood nearby, making sure passersby did not walk away with any of Christine's shabby things. "Apparently, while under the influence of morphine, I asked her to move in."

Together, they lifted her mattress with her headboard and footboard stacked on top.

"Morphine?" Nadir let the word trail off.

"I know...I know. I haven't let it get that bad in a long time. She makes me forget. She looks at me -treats me- like a normal man. You don't know how that feels, Nadir, to be treated like a normal person after so many years. And I wanted to live as though it were the truth. So I didn't go take care of things as I normally would, and...you know what comes of that." Erik set his end of the stack down, allowing Nadir to rest for a moment.

"But...you didn't send her home?" Nadir asked as he leaned against the building. He was an old man now; carrying heavy furniture was not in his daily routine.

"I tried to send her out of the room. She _wouldn't _be sent." Embarrassment clouded Erik's voice. "She saw me weak, Nadir. I couldn't even open the pill bottles; she did it. She gave me the medicine and then held me until I passed out."

"She loves you."

"Sure, but I never wanted her to see _that_. She'll pity me now. _Poor, poor Erik." _He turned and punched the wall. "Dammit!"

Nadir looked on sympathetically. Erik's fatal flaw was his pride. It was well-earned pride, survivor's pride, but it left him unable to accept kindness and compassion without rankling resentment, and that was dangerous. A girl like Christine would not understand being held at arm's length for any reason.

"You aren't listening, boy." Erik whirled to regard him; Nadir continued calmly and firmly. "She _loves_ you. I've never seen a woman love a man the way that one loves you. If she wouldn't leave you last night, it was because she wanted to stand by you – for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. I'd wager that pity was the furthest thing from her mind."

"But..."

"Ah-ah-ah. No, sir. You start thinking like that, and soon you'll start resenting her. And that _would_ be a tragedy. The worst you've ever faced." Nadir bent down and hefted his end of the mattress. After a moment's reflection, Erik followed suit. Nadir wasn't done talking, though. "I've told you before – let her love you in her way. Let me ask you something, Mr. Valliere: What would you do if Christine came home with the flu one day?"

"That's got noth..."

"Humor me."

"I'd bring her soup...and tissues...and cough medicine...whatever she needed, I guess."

"And if she told you to leave her alone right when her fever was highest, what would you do then?"

Erik wanted to reply that of course he'd respect her wishes, but that would be a blatant untruth. So he said nothing.

"As I suspected. _You'd_ never leave _her_ to suffer alone."

"But I'm used to it, Nadir. I've always...dealt with it...alone." Erik said this as a plain fact, refusing to use the word "suffer".

Nadir's smile was gentle and a little sad. "Maybe you shouldn't have. Tell me, how did it feel?"

"How did what feel?"

"Having her there.

"Other than humiliating?"

"Yes, boy. Other than humiliating."

They had reached the door. Nadir set his end down, needing a rest before manhandling the mattress through the door. Erik went in to clear a space for the thing, but found Christine dead to the world, asleep on the sofa. "_How did it feel?" _Nadir's question tugged at him.He gazed down at her, trying to think around his pride.

He woke up that morning to find that at some point she'd squirmed out from under him, but was still curled inches away, her hand resting on his arm. The moment he stirred, she woke as well. "_Feeling better?"_ she'd asked, sleepily. What had his feeling been when he woke to see her lying beside him? What had his feelings been as she lovingly massaged him to sleep? Humiliation hadn't been in the picture at all.

He opened the door and gestured for Nadir to be quiet. They carried the rest of her things in as quickly and quietly as possible. Nadir sat at the table, resting, while Erik silently made lunch.

"You better hold on to this one, Erik." whispered Nadir. "Look at her there, sleeping like a tired angel."

Erik nodded. Dinner was nearly ready. He dished it up and approached the sofa. Not caring that Nadir was watching, he knelt and kissed her cheek.

"Wake up, my love." Her eyes fluttered open. "Our very late lunch is ready."

Still mostly asleep, she muttered, "Love you..." She slowly stretched, yawned and sat up.

"Good evening, young lady." Nadir waved from the table.

They sat down and ate together, comfortably chatting about this and that. The conversation never touched on anything more serious than Erik's choice of a band name. When the last bite was swallowed, Nadir stood and patted his stomach with a satisfied sigh.

"I'm well-fed and happy. Can't think of a better time to start the long drive home than now." He walked to the door, followed by Erik and Christine. First, he hugged Christine. "It was an honor to meet you, m'dear."

She grinned. "Send us a playlist anytime. That one...worked out well."

He turned to Erik, who was staring at the floor.

"Like home," Erik said to the floor. "It felt like home."

Nadir embraced the man who was his son in all but name. "I thought so. Remember what I told you, Erik. And call me more often; I worry about you." With that, he was gone.

Christine quirked an eyebrow. "What felt like home?"

"Never you mind. We have a lot of putting away to do." He looked despairingly around his once bare and clean apartment.

She smiled. "There's nowhere to put most of these things. Let's do it later. Right now, I want to know what felt like home."

"You said I skim over many things."

She nodded.

"One thing I've skimmed over is the pain. Last night, you saw it about as bad as it gets. I never wanted you to see me like that. I never wanted..." He cleared his throat. "I'm not weak, Christine. I don't want your pity."

Her hand linked with his as she shook her head. "There's no pity here."

"I can handle the pain alone." His tone told her that he was telling himself this.

"I know you can," She lifted his hand and examined the freshly scabbed knuckles. "but that doesn't mean you have to. _I_ don't want you to."

"And that's the thing. I've never let anyone near me in those times. Never. Not since I was old enough to order them from the room. But last night...what you did...it didn't feel like an intrusion. And when I saw you there beside me this morning, that's what felt like home."


	46. Movin In Moving On

**Moving In; Moving On**

Many of Christine's belongings were superfluous and soon found their way onto a Goodwill truck. Erik already had a computer, dishes, cookware, a microwave, and a bed. Neither of them had any intentions of rearranging the music room – other than to make space for Christine's cello, flute, and waist-high collection of scores. They simply squeezed her dresser next to his and packed the remainder of her wardrobe into his closet. After she'd weeded out all the clothes that no longer fit, this was not much of a challenge.

There were some intense discussions regarding the apartment's decorating scheme. Christine had many things she wanted to add to make the place feel a little more "livable." Unfortunately for Erik, she would change something, smile her cherubic smile and then say, "But it's much nicer _now_, don't you think?" He could say little against the power of that smile. Besides, some of the little touches she added really did make the place more comfortable; fresh flowers, art prints, and a few throw pillows were just fine. After winning these concessions, she was willing to surrender to his black curtains and matching ebony furniture.

They settled into life together as comfortably as if they'd never lived apart. It was natural to wake up together, natural to share meals and conversation, and better than natural to practice music together day in and day out. Christine insisted on paying her part of the bills; even so, she was able to cut back her hours at work and concentrate on her music more.

Two weeks after she moved in, she received a call from Lawrence Conservatory. Dr. Corringer was very apologetic, but "I'm sorry Christine. The Board has decided that they cannot accept your original work as your performance piece. Though we all agree the composition and execution are of superb caliber, they ask me to remind you that interpretation is an essential piece of the grading rubric. It's hardly fair to other students to allow you to 'interpret' your own work."

"No, it's not. I understand, Dr Corringer." Christine tried not to sound crestfallen, but her heart was in her shoes.

"But Christine, you are listed as a special guest. I don't think anyone would be averse to an encore performance. I'd encourage you to come prepared to play your work. It truly is performance worthy. Who is your accompanist?" The Board had debated for nearly an hour on who the unknown violinist might be. Many world famous names were raised and rejected in turn.

A long pause followed the question. "He's my boyfriend."

"Ah. Well. He is an amazing musician in his own right. We look forward to meeting him." Dr. Corringer waited for a response. When there was none, he continued. "Do you have an alternate piece?"

"Yes, sir. I'll play Bach's Gigue in D minor. Do you think that will be acceptable?"

"I believe it will. We will be honored to have such an accomplished musician playing for us. Until then, Miss Daae."

"Have a good afternoon, Dr. Corringer."

She hung up and stared at her phone for a few minutes.

"What was that, Christine?" Erik was sitting nearby, working. "Did I hear you say 'boyfriend'?"

"They say I can't play my piece for the graded performance, because it wouldn't be fair to the other students – we get graded on interpretation." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "And yes, they wanted to know who my accompanist on the tape was. I didn't give them your name."

"You won't have an accompanist at the school. And not letting you play your piece... That's ridiculous! The piece is..."

Christine ignored that he'd declined to accompany her at the Conservatory. "It's fair, Erik. I would have an unfair advantage interpreting my own work. Dr. Corringer encouraged me to be ready to perform my composition as an encore."

Erik tried to smooth his ruffled feathers. If Christine wasn't upset over this, then neither would he be. "So. You chose the Gigue?"

"It's a beautiful piece. With only about a month to go, I don't want to pick anything I don't already know."

"True."

"And with only about a month to go, we have to make travel arrangements." Christine decided now was as good a time as any to discuss that inevitability. "Wisconsin is a long, long way from here. How do you want to get there?"

"A plane, I suppose. Rental car the rest of the way." He wrinkled his brow in consternation. "You're worried about traveling with me?"

"I'm worried about you traveling, period. I don't think they'll let a masked man on a plane – not with the way security is these days."

"I can't go with out it."

"No. You can't." Christine felt anger at that injustice well inside her, but brutally pushed it down. Now was not the time. "We could rent a car. I have a little money put aside..."

"We don't have to worry about money." Erik waved a hand dismissively.  
"How long a drive is it?"

"Very. It will take about three days."

"We'll just have a road trip then."

Christine smiled gratefully.Six days in a car sounded like torture. Six days in a car with _Erik_, however, sounded wonderful.


	47. Unmasked

**Unmasked**

Christine should have known that things were going too well. She and Erik were blissfully happy. Because they were living together and time with Erik was no longer a rare commodity, she was able to spend more time with Meg. The two women had missed each other terribly – catching up on one another's gossip required several 'girls' nights out'.

Meg even began visiting Christine at home. Slowly, grudgingly, she and Erik came to respect, and then to appreciate, each other. They had one much-loved interest in common – Christine. Erik learned to like Meg's brazen personality, while Meg soon found that Erik had a rapier wit.

The Saturday park performances continued, drawing more spectators at each show. With an infinitely varied repertoire ranging from classical to folk rock and a mysterious image, Strange Noise became a sensation in Seattle and parts beyond. Thanks to the modern marvel of cellular phones, people were able to stake out the parks and call their friends when they found the one where the performance was being held. It was not unusual to draw a crowd numbering in the thousands.

Among the audience there were almost always a couple of reporters from various newspapers, circulars, monthlies and magazines. More than once, Erik had smirked as he edited an article praising the unknown artists of "Strange Noise." Since the unpleasant experience with Ms Bertrand, they declined interviews; the reporters had to be satisfied with reporting the crowd size and setlist. Most were, considering the phenomenal music. Some, however, were unwilling to respect the anonymity of the performers.

Meg realized she'd made a mistake the moment his name left her lips. She was so proud of her friends' success, it never occurred to her that the friendly, persuasive reporter on the phone might have less-than-honorable intentions. But the woman's smug, "Thank you _very_ much Megan, you are _always_ such a pleasure to talk to," followed by a click, woke her suspicions.

Briefly, Meg considered calling Christine to tell her the mistake she'd made, but then thought better of it. She and Christine had only just begun to feel like old friends again and Meg really didn't think this little slip was worth getting Christine red-faced and angry over.

Not three days before they were set to leave for Christine's performance, she came home to a house that felt...wrong...the moment she walked in the door. That it should be quiet was not unusual, but this quiet had an uncomfortable edge to it. Though it was summer and the air-conditioning was off, the apartment felt cold.

"Erik? Sweetheart? Are you here?" She closed the door quietly behind her.

She'd barely taken two steps when Erik appeared in the hallway leading to their bedroom. His violin case was clutched in one hand, a stuffed duffel bag hung from his shoulder. He wore his black hoodie, pulled tightly over his head and mask, but she didn't need to see his face to know that he was in a righteous fury. His eyes were overbright, his breath came in heavy puffs. His movements were so tense as to be jerky. The total effect was frightening.

When he saw her, he strode over to her dropped everything he held, and grabbed her upper arms. From the way his eyes flashed, Christine flinched, thinking he would hit her. When he spoke, his voice hissed between his tightly clenched teeth.

"You...you traitor. Betrayer." He was pushing her towards the sofa as he spoke. "To think I trusted you. Loved you. Let you into my home – you WERE my home!" His voice had risen to a shout.

Christine was too stunned to resist. She couldn't have if she'd tried. His fingers locked around her arms, bruising the delicate flesh there.

"You're hurting me." It was all she could say past her shock. "Please, Erik. I love you..."

"Oh no. Not you. Don't flash those innocent eyes at me. Don't you dare speak those words. I'm no longer fooled." He flung her backwards; she landed heavily on the sofa – unhurt, but terrified. "You've destroyed me. Everything." He gestured wildly.

"Erik, I don't know what..."

"Shut your lying, traitorous, mouth. Did they pay you to do it? Or was it spite? I don't care. I don't care. Keep the apartment. Keep all this crap. It's dirt to me now. Never come near me again." He turned, snatched up his parcelsand left, slamming the apartment door behind him.

Christine sat where she'd landed, her face white, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She felt as though she might throw up. Tears and screams haunted her throat, but could not come into reality past the enormous lump there.

Had she believed she'd seen his temper on the bus? That had been a Spring breeze compared to the cyclone she'd just witnessed. What _had _she just witnessed? When her legs would obey her again, she walked around the apartment, searching for anything that might serve as a clue.

The bathroom mirror was shattered. Shards of glass littered the floor. Here and there she saw smears and droplets of blood, indicating that he had done this with his bare hands. The bedroom was trashed. Both dressers were overturned, clothes thrown everywhere. In one corner, his TENS unit lay in pieces. Pills were scattered around the floor. _He's gone without his medicine,_ she realized with a growing feeling of doom.

When she looked into the music room, she did vomit. Ripped and torn sheet music carpeted the floor. Instruments lay everywhere, like the broken bodies of war victims. Only the cellos and flute remained untouched. She leaned in the doorway, unthinking, too shocked to feel.

"What have you done, Erik?" she murmured. "_Why?"_

She dragged herself back to the kitchen and sat down at the table with a glass of water, trying to rid her mouth of the horrid taste and grasping desperately at the scattered threads of her thoughts. In the middle of this futile exercise, her eyes fell on something she'd ignored completely in its mundanity. The newspaper lay open on the tabletop.

The glass shattered into a million tiny glass splinters on the kitchen floor. Christine didn't notice. Her hand, shaking as with a palsy, came to rest on the top page. There, in full color, were reprints of Erik's mugshots – unmasked. They were the ones that had been missing when she'd Googled him so long ago. The accompanying story headline screamed:** The Monster Behind the Music of Strange Noise**. The article below labeled itself an exposé. It revealed Erik's name and his criminal history, along with a brief interview with the man he'd assaulted ten years before. The reporter (the esteemed Ms Bertrand) had painted Erik as a dangerous man, masquerading as a musician. And then she saw why he'd directed his anger at her. _"A source very close to the masked man provided..." _Teardrops obscured the rest of the sentence.

_"_Oh, Erik." She whispered it over and over like a mantra. His fury was no longer a mystery. She marveled that he had _not_ hit her and that, of all the instruments in his collection, he'd spared hers. "Oh, Erik, my love. Where have you gone?"


	48. Into the mouth of hell

**Into the Mouth of Hell**

Christine paced back and forth, crunching glass beneath her shoes. How could she find Erik? Seattle was a huge place with thousands of potential hiding places. She had to find him soon.

Nadir. Nadir might know. What was his number? What was nadir's phone number? She bit her thumb viciously, trying to remember.

"Phone bill..." she muttered, and ran to the file cabinet where Erik kept copies of all bills paid. Nadir's was the only long distance number Erik would call. Ah. There. Too easy.

She snatched up the phone and dialed the number, misdialing three times before she got her spasming hands under control.

"Calm down, girl, calm down." _Talking to yourself, _she thought. _Don't do that. _

The phone rang four times. Panic magnified the length of each ring – it was hours, light years, before Nadir answered.

"Erik! Good to hea..."

"Mr. Khan," she rasped. Her voice was destroyed. She could barely speak. "Nadir...please...he's gone...the newspaper...reporter...she found it...I...please"

"Christine?" An icy shudder coursed down his spine. "Calm down, dear. Take a breath. I can't understand you."

He listened to her try to take a breath, only to fail miserably and break down sobbing. There was a hysterical tone to her cries that pushed that ice deep into his stomach. He couldn't bear the strain.

"Dear little angel, please try to calm yourself. Who is gone? Erik?"

"Yes! Yes! He's gone, he left. Erik left." She choked on her tears. "That reporter...Ms Bertrand. She...someone told her Erik's name. His whole name. _She put his mugshots in the paper and he thinks I'm the one who betrayed him!"_

Nadir held the phone far from his ear and was able to hear every word she screamed.

"Ok. Ok. Just keep breathing. He's a grown man. He'll be ok. We just have to figure out where he's gone."

"He's not ok. He broke the mirror...there was blood. He destroyed the instruments. He doesn't have his medicine with him. Nadir, he's _not ok!" _Panic would not release its grip on Christine. Strong though she was, this was a blow too severe.

_Destroyed instruments? _Like a wildfire in a strong wind, Christine's panic leapt to Nadir. "He...broke his instruments."

"Yes. Do you see? He's not ok. He called me a traitor...betrayer. I thought he would hit me...he didn't...he's a good man, Nadir. He's good."

"I know he's good, dear girl. No matter what he said, he needs you now. You are his only chance. You have to calm down or you won't be able to help him and he could end up in jail...or worse. We don't want that. So sip some water, count to twenty, and talk to me." Keeping his voice gentle and even, Nadir talked to Christine until he heard her breathing slow. She was still hitching in the occasional breath, still coughing, but she followed Nadir's directives.

"Where would he go, Nadir? It's late... I was at Meg's..." Christine froze. _"A source close to the masked man," _the article said. Meg! This was Meg's doing! _No. Don't think about that now. Gotta find Erik._ _"_I was at Meg's until eight or so. It must be almost ten o'clock now. Where would he go?"

Nadir racked his mind. In his younger days, after the hospital, Erik had often run from the world when it was too cruel. He'd gone to lonely, wild places to find solitude. When he moved to Seattle, he'd told Nadir that he was going "to find the sea."

"Is there a place near the ocean where the two of you would often go? A wild place where other people rarely went? Something a little separated from everything else?"

There was. Below Discovery Park, there was a bluff. She and Erik had found a little cave set into a ledge above the spray from the breakers. It was difficult to get to during the day...at night it would be dangerous. But it was just the sort of place Nadir was describing.

"Yes."

"Can you get there?"

_How could I not? "Yes."_

_"_Then go! Stop talking to me and get out there!" Nadir started to hang up, but he had to add, "And Christine, be careful. And when you bring him home, call me. I won't be able to eat or sleep until you do." After he hung up, Nadir went into his kitchen a brewed a cup of coffee. The old man was standing watch.

Christine slammed the phone down and spun to run out the door. _No. Stop. Call a cab. _The cab company promised a driver would pick her up near the bus stop in fifteen minutes. She changed into her tennis shoes, grabbed a flashlight,a handful of his Neurontin and morphine pills, and a fistful of money from the grocery fund, and went out to wait.

She tossed three twenties at the cab driver and jumped out of the cab. When her feet hit the wet soil, she realized that she was afraid. Not _for_ Erik, but _of _him. "_Never come near me again." _he'd said, and his tone had been deadly cold. And then Nadir had said, "_Be careful_." But her Erik would never hurt her. He'd promised.

_But that was before. That was when he loved you. _The thought was hard, merciless. The flashlight hung heavily at her side. She did not want to use it and alert him to her presence, but the night was incredibly dark.

"Not the time for cowardice, Christine Daae." She scolded herself. "Not the time."

She knew the path well, and only needed the flashlight twice. Soon, though, she did not need the light or the path. Over the bestial roar of the Pacific Ocean smashing itself against the mainland, she heard a violin. No beautiful music was this. This was the music of Hell, played by its most tormented tenant. It screamed and ripped from the heart of the violin and threw itself into the night air.

"Erik," she whispered.

Carefully, stealthily, she climbed down the bluff face. Her fingers soon cramped from gripping the stone; no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep her grip. Fortunately, her fall terminated on the stone ledge – not on the brutal rocks in the surf below. The blooming, hot pain in her right leg and buttock held her attention for a split second before sudden silence turned her to face Erik. She tried to rise, but found that her injured leg would not support her.

Erik looked down at Christine as though she were a particularly unsavory stranger.

"Get away from me." The ocean itself must have quailed before the hate in his voice.

"No."

He set his violin down with a delicacy that only emphasized his rage. Christine saw that he had played with such fury that his horsehair bow was nearly bereft of hair and several strings on the violin were snapped.

"Get away from me," he stalked toward her, flexing his hands. "or I will do to you what you've done to me. Didn't you read? Don't you know I'm a monster?"

"Go ahead, Erik." She pushed herself to her knees. "I am not the one who gave that bitch of a reporter your name, but..." his hands had twisted themselves painfully into her hair, pulling several strands and bringing tears to her eyes; at her declaration they loosened almost imperceptibly. That tiny loosening, though, gave her hope. She forced herself to go on speaking, just as Nadir had. "but if it will help you, do whatever you need to. Scream at me, punch me...I don't mind. I love you, Erik. No matter what you do tonight, I still will."

Christine met Erik's eyes, her fear gone now that the moment was upon them. There was only the faintest glimmer of light from the nearby metropolis reflecting from the clouds, but it was enough. He could see truth and love shining in her eyes; her expression held no artifice. Her eyes were beacons, calling him home. There still _was_ a home for him. He let go of her hair and dropped to his knees.

"You didn't..." he whispered.

"No." Christine felt relief wash over her in dizzying waves. "I would never hurt you. I told you that. I promised." She wanted to go to him and hold him, but a strange lassitude had fallen over her.

"You wouldn't...you _couldn't_...I should have known." He dropped from his kneeling position to a cross-legged one and pressed his face into his hands, hurting himself purposefully. "I should have trusted you."

"You couldn't have known..."

"I came here to die," he whispered, barely audible above the sound of the waves. "I came to play my heart out and go to the ocean, where no one would ever have to deal with the corpse. That bag...it's full of things that remind me of happiness. I was going to take it with me..."

Christine turned her flashlight on the opened bag. At the very top was a copy of the music she'd written for him. The leaden feeling lifted from her limbs. Turning the flashlight back on him, she saw what he was doing to himself. Ignoring the pain from what she was now certain was a broken _something_, she pushed herself across until she could reach and roughly yanked his hands from his face. She tugged at the ties of his mask until they gave way – he'd apparently tied the thing on in anger.

"Don't, Christine. Don't look at me, please." but he offered no physical resistance.

She tilted his head up until she could see his face. In the flashlight's unforgiving beam, she saw that he'd torn at his face, ripping the already thin skin with his nails.

"Oh, Erik..." it was a grieving sound, a low moan. "Oh, my love..." Knowing she could not cause him any more pain, she traced the damage with one cool finger.

"You must hate me now. I should disgust you." He was still whispering.

"Never." She pulled him into her embrace; he came willingly enough. He'd been completely prepared for death; there was no strength left now that he'd returned from the abyss. "You are my Angel of Music. I could say it with every breath...I love you."

"I've destroyed our apartment."

"I don't care."

"I've destroyed my beautiful instruments."

"They can be fixed," thinking back on the carnage, she amended that to "...or replaced."

"I've hurt you." This thought nearly sent him over the precipice again.

"I will heal. _We_ will heal." Sensing his rising distress, she held him tighter.

"It's unforgivable."

"I've already forgiven you."

He shook his head and shifted position, meaning to take her in his arms. When he did, he saw her flinch and heard the little hissing intake of breath.

"You're hurt?"

"Oh, no..." she waved a nonchalant hand in the air. "It's just a little broken leg."

"Christine!"

"You're alive, and you don't seem to hate me...too much." She laughed a high, hysterical laugh. "Cut the damned thing off! I don't care..."

Erik just stared at her. How could he have thought – even for the most crazed instant – that she'd betrayed him? "I love you, Christine. Thank you for..." there was no way to express what he wanted to thank her for. "I'm going to look at this now...it's going to hurt..."

"No it won't," she said flippantly, and promptly passed out.

**A/N: And you all thought you had read the unmasking scene. Mm-mm. Please excuse any typos or other errors - I did not pause in my fevered typing for corrections. **


	49. His Strength

**His Strength**

"Broken..." He recalled how suddenly she appeared on the ledge, like a magic trick. Even though she was unconscious, Erik took the utmost care in examining her leg.

There was discoloration and swelling around the area just above the ankle. There was no blood, and the leg was not bent at a startling angle; he began to hope that the break was not too bad. He unlaced her shoe and gently removed it. Her foot was warm and rosy – no need to worry about impeded circulation. Not yet, at least.

No matter how mild the break was, however, she would not be able to make the climb back up the bluff. There was nothing here with which he could stabilize the bone. Erik stared doubtfully of the cliff face – could he climb it with her riding piggyback?

"Maybe..." he muttered. But he wasn't sure. If he faltered, even for a moment, they would both die. Even fresh and well-rested, it would be challenging to scale the rocks while carrying Christine. Now, she had a broken leg and wouldn't be able to use all her strength to hold on. He was in overwhelming pain himself, from the damage he had done to his face and the realization that he'd wronged Christine. The pain was a well-deserved punishment That broken leg was his fault. If only he had trusted her...

Christine shifted and then moaned, her eyes opening wide.

"Erik!" she gasped. "I think...my leg really is broken."

"It is. I'm sorry. It's my fault." Erik knelt beside her and helped her to sit up. "You passed out from the pain."

"Wait...here..." Christine dug around in her pockets. He'd reminded her of the pills she'd brought – just in case. "I brought your meds...some of them at least. Your...your TENS unit is broken... I thought you might need them." She pressed them into his hand.

Erik stared down at the pills. After what he'd said, after everything he'd _done_, her concern had been for _his _pain. "Thank you...I don't need them right now though."

_Liar, _thought Christine. Even if she had not been able to see the rending of his nails on his face, his pain showed sharply in his eyes. It was as bad – if not worse – than that night more than a month before. Why wouldn't he take the medicine?

"I have to get us out of here. If I help you up, do you think you can stand on one leg?"

"Yes..." Christine stared up the bluff face. On bright days, when she was well rested, it seemed only a skip and a jump. Now, at night and exhausted from worry, fear and pain, it seemed an impossible obstacle. "But even if I can stand, I can 't climb."

"You aren't going to climb. I am." He held out his hand, and she pulled herself to her one good foot. "All you have to do is hold on to me. Do you think you can do that?"

Incredibly, Christine smiled. "What do you think, Erik? Can I hold on to you? I'm trying my best here."

Shaking his head at her wry humor in a dreadful situation, Erik helped her climb on his back and lock her arms around his chest and her good leg around his waist. She still trusted him - and her life was in his hands. That thought sent a surge of adrenaline crackling through him. The same chemical that let tiny mothers lift cars off their infants allowed Erik to grip the rock and begin climbing.

He had made this climb hundreds of times, with and without Christine. It was his favorite place to come at night, alone, and play his violin to the wild ocean. He knew the easiest path up by heart . Concentrating only on his hands and feet, Erik forced his way up the rocks.

Christine clung to his back, barely daring to breathe. She understood as well as he did that one slip meant a long, fatal plunge into the rough surf many feet below. As soon as Erik approached the top, she grabbed the turf and helped him drag them both over. They rolled onto their backs in the dewy grass and lay still, breathing the moist night air in huge, grateful gulps.

"Christine, can you dry-swallow pills?"

"Umm... I don't know. Never tried. Why?" She lay there, staring up at the cloudy sky.

"The morphine will ease the pain of that leg until we can get you to the hospital." Erik fished the pill out of his pocket and held it out to her.

"Hospital," Christine repeated dully.

"Yes," Erik pushed the pill into her mouth. "Swallow, or that is going to taste very bad, very fast. You know, the hospital: that place where they set broken bones."

She gulped the bitter pill and shuddered at the taste. "But Erik...your mask is still on the ledge."

His strength was rapidly failing. His arms and legs were still trembling from the climb up. But he couldn't go in public without his mask; especially not after that newspaper article.

Normally, Erik espoused the opinion that foul language was used only by unimaginative ignoramuses incapable of expressing themselves more creatively. The string of expletives he uttered now would have made George Carlin proud. Wearily, he started down the bluff again; Christine hung over the edge and watched his slow progress anxiously. A while later, he resurfaced with his mask on his face and his violin dangling awkwardly from his belt.

"Now. To the hospital."

She leaned on him and hopped to the bus stop. As the morphine set in, she felt the world slipping away. The pain in her leg was still there, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered. She leaned her head on Erik's shoulder and closed her eyes.

"Erik?" Her voice was distant and dreamy.

"Yes?"

"I hate hospitals."

"I understand," Erik murmured as he stroked her hair.

The bus had arrived. Erik scooped her up and carried her up the steps, balancing her against the rail while he paid both their fares. The bus driver didn't even turn her head. This was her last run of the night. She was tired; if a troupe of clowns had appeared she would not have cared, as long as they paid their fares.

"You'll go in with me, won't you?"

"Of course." Erik arranged her in the seat so that her injured leg was elevated on his, then he pulled his hood up and cinched it tight.

"You probably hate hospitals more than I do." She sounded as though she were talking in her sleep. In a way, she was.

"It's ok."

"I bet it's like me going back to the Conservatory."

"Hush, Christine. Rest."

"You must have been so scared when you were little. I wish they had let you alone..."

Erik hoisted her off the bus and carried her to the connector stop. The next bus would take them straight to the hospital. The few other people at the stop stared openly at the strange couple. Erik tried to keep to the shadows of the streetlights as he loaded his limp love onto the bus. Christine continued her mutterings.

"I'm gonna find that Bertrand woman and teach her a thing or two. After I skin Meg. After we go to the Conservatory. I hope I do well..."

_Skin Meg? _wondered Erik. _What the..._

Once in the Emergency Department waiting room, Erik told the triage nurse that Christine had had a fall, that he had given her a dose of the morphine he took for his condition. The nurse glared at him suspiciously. She recognized him from the newspaper, but it was not her place to confront him. Once the girl was admitted they would get her alone and find out the real story.

Only, when it came time for Christine to go back to the treatment area, she would not let go of Erik. The nurse tried to tug her hands free, but in the end, Erik wound up going back with her. The break was a minor one, needing only setting and a cast. The doctor handed Erik a sample pack of pain medications for when the morphine wore off.

"Sir, please don't give her anymore of your medicine. That isn't children's aspirin you're playing with."

"I know." Erik avoided the doctor's stern gaze. "It's all I had."

"We recognize, you, you know." The doctor tapped her nose with one finger. "_They,_" she gestured to the nurses, "recognize you from the paper. _I_ recognize you from the park. Both of you. I was there when you sang the blues. It was electrifying."

Erik looked up sharply to see that the physician was smiling at him indulgently.

"And I saw her kiss you. Screw what the newspaper says. Whoever wrote that article should be hung up by their toes. You really ought to demand a retraction – or at least an apology."

They shook hands. The doctor felt the dried blood and cuts covering his right hand.

"Want me to look at that for you?"

Erik shook his head, ashamed of the damage he'd done.

"Fine...fine. Just wash it out as soon as you can." She looked over at Christine, who was lying comfortably on the table, staring happily at the bright lights in the ceiling. "It's a real honor to have met you both. Don't let some yellow reporting stop you from performing. Alright. I've got lives to save. Take her home and take good care of her."

**A/N: Up next: Meg - everyone's favorite red-head. **


	50. What's Said is Said

**What's Said Is Said**

**_About three hours earlier:_**

Meg sat at the dinner table, munching her evening sandwich. She'd had a lovely evening with Christine and was reflecting on the Conservatory trip. Her boyfriend wandered into the room holding the newspaper.

"Hey Megalicious. Want something to spoil your appetite? Check this fug-ugly dude out." He tossed the paper onto the table and sauntered off to the garage where he was vainly trying to get his old motorcycle running again. He was the sort who never actually read articles – he was mainly interested in the funnies and the sports scores.

Meg stared at the butchered face in front of her as Mexican jumping beans began dancing in her stomach. She read the headline and then the article. The writing portrayed an Erik whose soul matched his ruined face. There was no compassion or sympathy; it was an article meant to sting and scandalize. And Meg knew who the "_source"_ was.

"Oh, crud," she groaned. She walked to the garage door and leaned out to get her boyfriend's attention. "Do you know who this guy is?"

"Huh-uh," he grunted.

"This is Christine's Erik; the one who always wears a mask..."

"Well, he shoulda gone on wearing it. That dude is messed up." Jay tossed his wrench behind him. "Babe, could you bring me that big one with the yellow handle?  
Meg brought him the larger wrench, then sat on the steps with her head in her hand. "Yeah. It's my fault these pictures are in here. God, I'm so dense."

Jay chuckled. "I been saying that for years, but I love you anyway. I didn't know you were writing for the paper now..."

"No. I just gave this reporter the information she wanted and...Christine is going to kill me. With her bare hands. Or a cello string. I better call her." She headed into the house to find her cell phone.

Jay stood, stretched, and scratched his neck. "I wouldn't be worried about _her_ killing you. I'd worry about _him._ Man...if that was me, _I'd_ be out to kill you."

"Oh, that's nice. Real comforting. Jeez. I have to go apologize. I can't just call. I have to go over there."

Jay glanced at the smudged wall clock. "You realize it's nearly eleven?"

"They aren't in bed yet. Or if they are, they aren't asleep."

"That's just wrong." Jay's face twisted in disgust at the thought of anyone having sex with the guy in the newspaper.

"I'll get a cab. If they kill me, tell the police I deserved it."

Meg approached the apartment building with great trepidation. She rehearsed various apologies as she walked, not caring that she looked like a crazy woman talking to herself.

"Erik, I am very sorry for telling your name to the... No. Erik, Christine, I hope you can forgive me... No. She was very persuasive; it just slipped out... No." Meg started chewing her fingernails. "I am a very stupid person and I did a very stupid thing and if you need a slave for a week..."

The door was slightly cracked; a thin beam of light escaped into the hallway. Meg pushed it and let it swing open.

"Christine? Erik? It's Meg. I came to apologize. May I come in?" She waited, but there was no answer.

She stuck her head in the door. There were lights on everywhere. The smell of stale sickness made her head swim. Worried now, she walked in and looked around.

"Christi..." Meg stopped mid-word. She'd spotted the broken glass on the kitchen floor. The newspaper still lay on teh table, open to the fatal page.

Further exploration revealed the puddle of vomit, bashed mirror with accompanying blood smears, the destroyed instruments, the trashed bedroom. Something had gone terribly wrong in here and now both occupants were vanished. Meg stood in the middle of the hallway, her hand pressed to her mouth.

Christine had always been adamant that Erik would never hurt her. Whose, then, were the blood smears? Had Christine been here when all this damage was done? Meg pulled her phone from her purse and dialed her boyfriend.

"What's up?" his ever-phlegmatic voice answered.

"Jay, something awful has happened..."

"You ok?"

"Yeah. I'm ok. But I'm at Christine's place. It's been smashed to hell...there's blood everywhere...and there's no one here. The door wasn't locked or anything."

"Jesus! Get out of there. Don't touch anything. Call the police; it's probably a crime scene." Jay, normally calm in any situation, sounded worried.

"I don't think it is...but I'm not sure they're both ok. God, I bet Erik flipped. Wherever he is, Christine's probably with him."

"Meg...blood...destruction...crime scene. That kind of thing is on TV all the time."

_"_Maybe I will call the police..." _or maybe I've done enough already._

_"_You do that, babe, and you come on home – ok?"

"Ok."

"Be careful."

"I will"

Meg hung up, feeling no better than when she had called. Again, she surveyed the damage. _I caused this. Me. _Her thoughts tormented her – her "little slip" had possibly ruined two people's lives.

Meg was a do-er. When there was trouble, she always had an active plan to solve the problem. Go shopping, search for the lost wallet, take the dog to the vet, etc... In this case, though, there did not seem to be anything she could _do._ In addition to feeling incredibly guilty, she now also felt incredibly worthless.

The place was a total wreck. Meg had never found a single thing out of place when she visited, and _now_ look. Without being entirely conscious of it, her feet were carrying her to the broom closet. She took out the broom and dustpan and began to sweep the broken glass from the floor. After all, someone could get cut. The little bit of activity felt good. The bathroom was full of broken glass as well. It made no sense to leave one pile of glass and clean up the other, and once the glass was up she couldn't leave the blood...

_Shouldn't leave that puke on the floor either, _she reasoned,_ when they come home, they aren't going to want to smell it._ Disgusting though it was, that mess became Meg's next target. Planning for Erik and Christines 'inevitable' return eased her mind immeasurably.

Next, she turned to the bedroom. It took all her strength to right the tipped dressers, but when Erik and Christine came home they'd probably be tired. They'd want to go straight to bed, and the dressers definitely blocked the way. She picked up and fussily folded each piece of scattered clothing. The pills were separated into two piles on top of Christine's dresser, followed by the TENS unit and all its little pieces.

There was little that could be done for the music room. She grouped the few instruments that were minimally damaged or undamaged in one corner of the room, and dragged the remains of the rest to the other side.

The sound of the closing door followed by heavy footsteps stopped her frenzied cleaning. Meg suddenly found that she was terrified of facing either Erik or Christine. There was no way around it, now, unless she intended to hide in the music room closet and sneak out later. _Not a bad idea..._Meg almost gave in to that temptation before making herself walk out the door.

Erik stood in the living room, supporting Christine, who was smiling a goofy smile and swaying on crutches. A neon blue cast covered half of her right leg and most of that foot. Erik was trying to direct her to the couch.

"We're home, Christine my love. Lie down and rest, please?" his tone was one he might have used with a tired five-year-old.

"Uhh..." Meg stammered, announcing her presence, "She could lie on the bed..."

The silly smile disappeared from Christine's face when her cloudy gaze came to rest on Meg's silhouette in the hallway. She took an unsteady step forward with her crutches. "Get out." The morphine rendered her tone emotionless, but the sentiment was clear.

"I'm sorry..."

"I think Christine is right." Erik had just connected the dots. "Get out. You are not safe here." There was no morphine in his system – he was still punishing himself for Christine's suffering. The step he took towards Meg was infinitely steadier and infinitely more threatening than Christine's.

Meg saw no forgiveness in either of their faces. They looked as though they'd been through both World Wars – and were still spoiling for a fight. She did the only thing left for her to do: giving both of them a wide berth, she ran out the door.


	51. There's Always a Plan

**There's Always a Plan**

Erik slammed the door the moment Meg was clear of it. By the time he turned around, Christine was stumping down the hallway to the bedroom. Erik groaned in frustration. The bedroom was an impossible mess – there was no way a person on crutches could get to it. Unfortunately, the drugged-up girl was dead set on going there. He eased around her and walked in, only to stand gaping at the well-ordered room.

"How...?"

Christine bumped into him from behind. "Move. I have to lie down..."

He helped her into bed, set her crutches where she could reach them, and brought pillows from the sofa to elevate her leg. He filled a water glass and set it on the bedside table next to the bottle of Tylenol 3. Once Christine was set up comfortably, he lay down beside her and focused on the ceiling.

Minute's later, Christine's breathing was slow and even, but she was not asleep yet. In a morphine haze, she floated softly; she was vaguely aware of all that had passed, but unable to summon the will to care. She remembered Meg running out the door and felt a flash of anger, but that soon subsided. Erik was next to her, close and warm. He was trembling. Did he need her? She put out a searching hand, curled her fingers loosely around his. All the happiness she'd ever dreamed of was in the returned tender pressure of his fingers on hers.

Erik had done considerable damage to his face during his rage. Instead of medicating the pain, he let it sink molten pincers into his cheeks and forehead. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks; he knew he was trembling. He would not sleep tonight. It was a fitting punishment for what he had put her through. What, he wondered, would be a fitting punishment for that red-headed woman? These vicious thoughts dissolved when he felt Christine's lazily questing hand close on his.

Though he had lived in quiet solitude for nine years, he had never felt peace. His mind had always been a constant whirl of anger, cynicism, resentment, and self-hatred. When he believed that Christine had betrayed him, all those feelings -instilled by a lifetime of rejection and loss- were whipped to a crimson frenzy. If even _she_ could not love him, he had decided that no one ever would, and he would be better off dead. When she appeared on the ledge declaring that he might do as he wished to her, so long as he loved her, a new and entirely alien thought had been born. If he could not let go of all those destructive emotions, the next thing he destroyed could be his love. And that would be a tragedy; the worst he'd ever faced. How right Nadir had been! There was such clarity inside the misery.

"Christine, you were right. I hadn't mastered my anger – I'd only locked it away. But I will master it. If you'll stand with me, I can do it."

"I like my cello..." Christine murmured and emitted a tiny, ladylike snore.

Jay was sitting up waiting for her when Meg walked through the door in tears. She threw herself on the sofa beside him and cried loudly for several minutes. Jay put a muscular arm around her and patted her knee until she quieted. It was not unusual for Meg to decide she needed "a good cry." He'd long since learned that the best policy was to let her drain her tears before asking any questions.

Finally the tears tapered off.

"They both hate me now. I've lost my best friend!"

Jay kept patting her knee. "She'll get over it. It's not like you two haven't had your falling-outs before this."

"No. I don't think she will. Unless I can make it up somehow..."

"How are you gonna do that, Megalicious? I don't mean to be harsh, but you can't exactly un-publish that article..."

Meg sat upright and pressed a finger to the tip of Jay's nose. "You are right."

"Of course I am."

"_I_ can't un-publish that article. But the newspaper can! Or if not that, they can print an answering article! Most of the stuff that journalist said was not true! Erik isn't a monster or a brute. So that... that's defamation of character, right?" Jay could imagine the wheels in Meg's brain creaking to life, spinning faster and faster as she formulated one of her infamous plans

"I guess it could be..."

"It _is! _ And if I go down there and tell them so, they have to print something else – don't they?"

"I don't know. Meg, are you seriously considering..."

"I'll do it tomorrow." Meg jumped up from the sofa and grabbed a pen and some paper. "They can't just say whatever they want about a person. They can't be that one-sided. Erik has to be allowed to defend himself – or someone has to be allowed to defend him. He and Christine will be gone to Wisconsin. I was supposed to go, but I doubt I'm invited anymore."

Jay watched her begin to write feverishly. "You know, Megaton...even if you pull this off, they might still hate you."

"Always such a supportive boyfriend. That's what I love about you." Meg looked at what she had written, shook her head and started again. "But even if they still hate me, I'll have done everything I can. And if this doesn't work, I will personally hunt down Ms. Bertrand and beat the ever-living snot out of her."

This, Jay believed. He hoped for Ms. Bertrand's sake and Meg's sake that the newspaper would be willing to print an answering article. Meg was a scrapper – if she decided to beat this woman up, he had no doubt the woman would land in the hospital and Meg would land in jail.

"Ok. So Plan A is you write another article, and Plan B is that you beat this woman down."

"Yup."

He massaged her shoulders with his huge, rough hands. "Want some help on that article?"

True to her word, Meg popped out of bed at six the next morning, called in to work (Bess almost had a break-down – Christine had also called in with her broken leg), and headed off to the Seattle Times headquarters. She stood at the front desk, waiting for the harassed-looking receptionist to put the phone down.

"Yes ma'am. Yes. I will pass that on to the...Mm-hmm. Mmm-hm. Yes...No, you aren't the first person to...Ok. I will pass that on. Have a nice day." She hung up and looked at Meg. Before she could speak a greeting, however, the phone began to ring again.

"Good morning, ma'am. How may I help you?"

"Ummm..." Meg looked uneasily at the phone with its flashing red lights. "Don't you need to answer that?"

"No. I already know what they want. I'll just note it down with all the others." One perfectly manicured nail gestured to the stack of sticky notes rising ominously on her left.

"Wow. All those are about the same thing?" Nosy Meg was instantly curious.

"Yes. Apparently one of our entertainment writers has angered all of Seattle with an exposé she wrote. And I have to field all the calls. They don't seem to realize that _I_ didn't write, edit, or ok the damned thing! I'm just the receptionist. And the mail hasn't come yet today – but I will have to open almost all of _that_ as well." The poor little woman really did look as though she'd reached the end of her rope. The phone rang and flashed incessantly.

"The _Strange Noise_ article?"

"That's the one."

"Well, not to add to your morning, but that's what I'm here about."

"Oh no."

"But I actually know them. _Strange Noise._ I'm the source Ms Bertrand spoke to." Meg recoiled at the predatory grin the pert little lady threw her way.

"Wonderful. Maybe you'd care to field a couple of these calls, then?"

"Uh...no, thanks. But, if you can tell me who to talk to, I have a rebuttal article..." Meg displayed her final draft. "It might help. If you help me out...it would give you something to tell all these people."

"I'll see if the editor will talk to you. I'll _encourage_ him." Without further comment, the receptionist walked through a door a few feet away from her desk, carrying her pile of sticky notes with her. Five minutes later she emerged, nodding to Meg. "Go on."

Meg walked back, far more confident now than she had been upon entering the building. They were taking a beating for that article; hopefully, that would give her a leg up in promoting her response.

Mr. Bell stood when the Meg entered his office. They shook hands and he indicated she should have a seat.

"Now, young lady, Miss Gerhardt tells me that you know this Erik Valliere personally and that you wish to submit a response to Ms. Bertrand's article, which has been drawing some criticism. I also understand that you were Ms. Bertrand's original source." He sat back in his chair expectantly.

"Yes. But all I told her was what his name was and how many different instruments he can play. She made me think she was going to write a nice article about them. Instead, she made him sound like a monster – I'll have you know that Erik is anything _but_ a monster. He treats Christine like she was made of gold – I'm actually envious of the two of them. So, most of what she wrote was rumors and outright lies. Isn't that called libel? And she printed his face without his consent, which I think was really uncalled for." Having delivered this diatribe without taking a breath, Meg sat back, mirroring Mr. Bell's expectant attitude.

"Libel is a serious word to throw around at a newspaper, young lady." His words carried a mild warning. Meg was not impressed.

"If the shoe fits... Did anyone even check up on the facts? I know no one called either of _them_, that's for sure."

"We did check his criminal record..." Mr Bell was looking decidedly uneasy.

"From _ten years ago! _People change. Your Ms. Bertrand might have just taken away the only happiness this man has ever found. And from what I heard at the receptionist's desk, their fans aren't very happy about what you published either."

"I'll admit that's true."

"You bet it is." Meg was at the height of her performance now. "You just bet. And because I am the _only_ other person in this city who knows both of them _personally_, I suggest that you let me write a rebuttal –their real story - and you might want to add in an apology, too."

"If we let you do this, what would you write?" In this fiery woman, Mr. Bell saw an opportunity to correct a grievous mistake _and_ a chance to increase readership. The people loved a good human interest story.

"I'd write about my friend Christine, and how she almost lost her future until Erik restored it to her. I'd write about how Erik had never known love, only because of his face, and he might _never _have if Christine hadn't been able to look past his mask _and_ his face. And I'd write about how the music they make together is so incredibly beautiful because they love each other perfectly, and..."

"Enough. Enough. You've convinced me. Write your article and let me look it..." The man was almost slavering. It was the perfect story – Beauty and the Beast, true love and hardship – the public would eat it with a spoon.

Meg thrust the article into his hand. He perused it, made a few notations, and looked up. "It's a bit rough, but you show real potential. Have you ever considered a career in journalism? Make these corrections, and we'll run it."

"May I borrow a computer?"

"Over there. Be my guest."

It took Meg a matter of an hour to clean up her article and type it out. She couldn't believe it had been this easy to accomplish her mission. She'd been expecting a show-down at the editorial office. _Never underestimate the power of public outrage, _she thought happily.

"It will run tomorrow, Ms..."

"Giry. Megan Giry. And it has been a _real pleasure_ talking with you, sir." She sauntered out of the office, stopping in the doorway only long enough to say, "You should fire that woman, sir. She's not even a good interviewer."


	52. A Time for Peace

**A Time for Peace**

Christine did wake a few hours later, when the morphine wore off. It felt as though someone were attempting to amputate her lower leg with a large spoon. Turning her head, she saw Erik sitting beside her, just finishing rehairing his bow. She gawked at his neat array of tools and the deftness of his hands and he lovingly tested the tautness and smoothness of his finished product.

"It looks perfect," she whispered. "That's amazing. I just take my bow to a repairman."

"I'll teach you if you like. It's a long, difficult, tedious process, but it saves money and a trip to the repair shop." He set the bow beside him and reached for the glass of water and pill packet. "Here. I know that leg's bothering you. This is what they gave us at the emergency room. It's Tylenol 3; should take care of that pain pretty well."

"No, thanks. I don't need it." Christine reached for her crutches.

"I can see that you _do_ need it. The doctor said the worst pain would be today and tonight. So here, take your medicine, and I'll bring you French toast in bed." Again, he tried to press the pill on her.

"Have you taken yours?"

"Christine, you know I..."

"Well, I'm not taking mine until you've taken yours. I know it's been better than twenty four hours since you've had your capsaicin cream and I know that stuff has to be used regularly to be effective. You haven't taken your Neurontin, either." Christine knew very well why he wasn't taking his medicine. She was not willing to let him treat himself so cruelly, but her only leverage was his feelings for her. She wanted the medicine badly now – her leg was screaming.

"You're acting like a child. Come on, now." She could be so _aggravating_.

"Who is? Me? I don't think so. You take yours and I'll take mine; that's the deal." Her expression softened and she touched his wrist lightly. "Do you think I like seeing you hurt anymore than you like seeing me hurt? I know we have a lot to talk about after last night, but right now let's just stop hurting – both of us, ok?"

"You're a hard little woman, you know that?" Erik quickly swallowed his Neurontin with some of her water. "I can't use the capsaicin, though. You can't put it on...broken skin."

"I'll let you go on that one," she said, taking the medicine from him and swallowing it gratefully, "but if we're going to be together for a long time you are going to have to take care of yourself. I can't stand it, otherwise."

"Speaking of things we can't stand: did you know your phone has been ringing constantly for the past three hours?" The annoying ringtone had almost caused him to mess up his rehairing job more than once.

"Really? Could you grab that for me so I can see who it is, please?" He passed her the phone without a word; he'd already seen the caller ID.

"It was Meg." Christine grimaced. "I can't believe she had the brass ovaries to call me, after what she's done. And she's left messages.

Erik walked from the room, unwilling to even admit to Meg's existence. "You like confectioner's sugar on yours?" She nodded.

Christine went to erase her voice messages, but curiosity led her to listen. What could Meg _possibly_ have to say for herself? She dialed up the voicemail.

"Christine, I know you hate me now, and that's what I deserve. I don't blame you at all. I'd hate me, too. But, I just wanted you to know that I've tried to do some damage control – Erik doesn't deserve what that bi...that woman did to him. Don't let him think everyone hates him now; when I was at the newspaper office this morning..." The message cut off there, but there was another immediately following: "Like I was saying, whenI was at the newspaper this morning they were getting tons of complaint calls against that article; people were saying it was a shame to do that to anyone. _Strange Noise_ fans were all pissed off because the mystery's been ruined for them. But they are still your fans. But anyway..uh..yeah, check the newspaper this morning, because I tried to do some damage control. And if you want to yell at me in person, you know my number..."

_Damage control, _Christine mouthed to herself. "Hey, Erik? Please bring me today's paper..."

Delicious smells preceded his return. He brought her a tray with golden-brown French toast, a glass of orange juice, and the newspaper still in its plastic cover. He set the tray beside her, then went back for his own plate so they could eat together.

Christine unfolded the newspaper and began leafing through it. There, on the front page of the Entertainment section, was a headline featuring _Strange Noise. _**The Truth of Strange Noise**: Seattle Times apologizes for misrepresentation of musical genius.

Below this was Meg's article accompanied by a photo of them singing the duet at their last performance. Christine's severe expression melted into a gentle smile as she read.In a complete departure fromher usual dramatic delivery, Meg had written their story with tenderness and respect. Erik's story was told with a sensitivity that brought tears to Christine's eyes. Apparently, Meg had been paying attention when Christine babbled on and on about him.

"Erik, she wrote an article about us and got it published. She made the newspaper apologize. Look." She passed him the newspaper. He took it, glanced at the title, then tossed it aside.

"That's very nice. So, I think we have to leave a little earlier. You won't be able to drive, so I'll have to drive the whole way. We'll need to stop often, if we are to be safe."

Christine nodded. It made sense that he wasn't willing to look at the article. She was still very angry with her old friend. His anger at Meg would take an even longer time to dissolve, if it ever did. She would not press him on that subject now.

"Ok. I don't mind a little more car time with you."

They spent the rest of the day packing – or Erik did. Christine tried, but was constantly carried back to the couch to elevate her leg and rest. She sneaked a little packing time when he left around midday to get a replacement for his TENS unit, but his return was swift. After dinner, he 'allowed' her an hour of practice with her cello, then ordered her back to the couch.

Not a word was exchanged about the previous night's events. It was, as Christine had said, time to stop hurting for awhile.

The peaceful mood continued until they got on the bus the next morning to go to the rental agency. The moment they stepped on the bus, the whispers rose around them.

"That's them!"

"That's him...the guy from the paper."

"It's Strange Noise. I saw them last week."

Halfway down the aisle, a hand shot out and grabbed Christine's arm. "Hey!" a young man in torn jeans and a holey t-shirt held out a Hugo novel. "Would you guys sign this for me? Please?"

Erik and Christine stared down at him, flabbergasted. "An autograph? You want an autograph?" she asked.

"Yeah. My girlfriend and I have been big fans since we saw your first concert. We think it's great, what you are doing, playing music for free for everyone."

"Well, sure." Christine took the book and signed it. "To whom?"

"To Gregory and Janice. Thanks! She will be so jealous that I got to meet you and she didn't."

She passed the book to Erik, who took it and stared at Christine's neat script for a few seconds before adding his signature. They continued down the aisle, but before they could take their seats, three more people of varying ages and apparent incomes had stopped them to ask for autographs or to express anger at the Seattle Times for printing the first article. One very elderly lady was outraged and insisted on gripping Erik's hand tightly in hers as she spoke.

"I called the paper and I told them I was going to cancel my subscription and so were all my friends. It was shameful, exploiting someone's misfortune like that. That was like printing a picture of someone without their knickers on. How dare they! But then they printed that apology and that nice article. What a lovely story – you two should get married. You could play the music for your own ceremony. Everyone would come. That would be lovely..." she rattled on until the rental car place's stop came. "Don't you stop going to the parks, now. My daughter has taken me to every show you've done. We just love you."

Nodding and thanking their supporters, Erik and Christine climbed down from the bus with a new view of the world.

"They love us," she beamed up at him, as he passed her her crutches. "We have a _fan_ base." Erik just looked stunned. "They saw you in the paper and they don't care. I told you they just want to hear the music. Isn't that _wonderful_?"

"Yeah. Wonderful." Erik wandered into the rental agency, trying to wake himself up. There was no way this was reality – it had to be a dream.

**A/N: The story is drawing to a close. The next two or three chapters will be the last. It's been an incredibly fun and educational write. And yes, anyone who's read my profile knows that I like happy endings and good resolutions. Call it an addiction.**


	53. Snippets

**A/N: I guess I really could have made this into another five chapters. It takes almost 30 hours to drive from Seattle to Appleton, Wisconsin. They would have had time to talk about _any_thing. But here are the snippets I thought were most relevant. **

**Snippets**

Christine reclined against a stack of pillows in the backseat, her leg up on another two pillows in front of her. Her cello, of which she was extremely envious, claimed the front passenger seat next to Erik. Despite a decade long absence from the driver's seat, Erik was proving himself to be a safe, careful driver. He insisted on going the speed-limit (three miles per hour over once they hit open road) saying that police tend to be very suspicious of masked drivers with injured young women in their backseats. He'd had one run-in with the law and that was quite sufficient, thank you.

After the initial road-safety 'discussion' was done, the next hundred miles passed in near silence. Classical mix CDs played in the rental car's six-CD changer, but conversation was nil. There was so much to be said, neither of them knew where to begin. With twenty-eight hours of road ahead of them, everything eventually found its time.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Erik, about what happened two nights ago..."

"I'm sorry. I should have trusted you." What more could he say?

"That's...that's not it. You were on that ledge to commit suicide, you tore your face up, you refused to stop your own pain. It scares me to think you hate yourself so much." Christine rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. " I told you I was trying to hold on to you, but I'm scared I'm going to lose you."

Erik sighed. "Though you were pretty much passed out when I did it, I made you a promise that night. It's true: if I really love you -and I do- I will find a way to fix all those things that are broken in me. That means not just locking myself away. I don't know what I'll have to do, but I'm determined to do it."

"That's comforting..." she sounded unsure.

"I swear Christine, that you will never lose me...in that way." Erik reached back and patted her leg reassuringly.

"I don't want to lose you in _any _way," she urged, not satisfied with his qualification.

"Aside from the unforeseen lightning strike or heart attack, I don't see any reason for you to worry." Erik smiled. "If you are still worried, I think there's some Super Glue in my repair kit..."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"I read that article after you went to bed."

"And?" Christine cursed the mask and his inscrutable eyes.

"She's a good friend to you."

"But..."

"She has to stop making my private life public. That article was very sweet, but it still...It made me feel naked. That old lady was right – it's like being displayed naked in public. Twice now." Erik gritted his teeth. "The first elicited hate; the second begged for sympathy. I want _neither_, Christine."

"What do you want?"

"I don't know."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Did you see that sign?" Christine twisted in her seat to watch the rectangular piece of sheet metal fade in the distance.

"The Outagamie sign?"

"That means we're almost there." Christine began to chew her lip.

"True. According to these roadsigns we've got about an hour and a half or so to go." Erik checked the gas gauge. They'd have to get gas one last time before they checked in at the hotel. He hated gas stops; inevitably, someone asked him whether he was on his way to a party. Recently, he had begun saying yes.

"Let's go home." Christine watched Erik roll his eyes.

"Nope. We're here now. You must go through with it." This is what he'd been instructed to say, should she waver.

"Seriously, Erik. I've changed my mind. Let's go see the pretty lakes and then let's get back on the road." She sounded absolutely sick with fear.

"Ok. But you are driving home. I never want to see another steering wheel as long as I live. I might buy a house out here..." The past few miles had been stunning, visually; this was only a half-joke.

"I _can't_ drive home! I broke my leg going after _you_, remember?"

"Well, next time break the other leg so you can still drive. You can't deprive all those people of your genius just because you've got cold feet." He winked over his shoulder at her. "I'll carry you onstage myself, if I have to."

"I'll get you for this," Christine growled. She had improved her threatening tone tenfold over the past year. Erik was almost impressed.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When they passed a sign declaring only thirty miles between them and their destination, Christine decided she had waited long enough for the topic she was truly interested in to be raised. If Erik would not do it, she'd do it herself.

"What do you think about what that old lady on the bus said?"

"What, continuing to play in the park? I guess I can't argue too much. I actually signed an autograph." Erik shook his head at the flashing white lines. "Three. I signed three."

"Noooo..." Christine drew the word out and tried to give Erik significant looks in the rearview. "The _other_ thing she said. You know...about us getting...you know..."

"Married?" Erik wore his mask, his eyes were on the road, and his voice was giving nothing away.

"Well, yeah. I mean, we live together already..."

"Usually, getting married involves informing a large number of people about the relationship." He risked a glance back over his shoulder. "Have you even mentioned me to your parents?"

"No." Christine mused on this a moment before continuing. "I haven't really told them anything about anything. I have barely talked to them in two years. Ever since the Conservatory thing...they talk to me like I'm a temperamental mental patient. Which is what I acted like, I guess. But now that you mention it...I can't wait to introduce you."

"I can. Honestly, Christine, how would you tell them? I mean, '_Mom, Dad, this is my husband-to-be. He's a thirty-nine-year-old, disfigured musician with a criminal past." _Yup, that's a winner. I'm sure they'll be bowled over." The biting sarcasm came naturally; it was out before he could get a handle on it.

"Actually, I was thinking of saying, '_Mom, Dad, this is Erik. He's the one who got me back to the Conservatory, he's my partner in one of the most popular live bands in Seattle, and -oh yeah- he's responsible for my current joyful state.' _I think that's a pretty good beginning."

"Seriously, though. I doubt they would like the idea."

"They don't get to choose. Hey, have you mentioned me to _your_ family?" Christine thought she was clever, turning the question around on him.

"You met all the family and friends I have when you met Nadir."

"What about your Dad?"

"My Dad... I'll take you to meet my Dad on our return trip, ok? But let's not talk anymore about him just now." She could see that his fingers were white on the driving wheel and quickly dropped that subject.

"So...does that mean you will?" she asked, unable to believe the words were coming out of her mouth.

"Will what?" Oddly, Erik suddenly found that the car was entirely too warm.

Christine took a deep breath. "There's a rest stop. Please pull over."

Erik steered the car into the parking lot and helped her out. She stumped around a bit on her crutches to get the blood flowing. Once she felt less road-zoned, she returned to him, set her crutches down and took both his hands.

"Erik Valliere, would you like to marry me?" _Well, there you have it. It's said. _She sternly forbid herself to blush.

Erik watched her for a minute, waiting for the "_Haha! Just kidding_!" that must necessarily follow such a question. She showed no sign of retracting. It felt peculiarly like his might have turned into a feather that would flutter away in the slightest breeze. Before answering, he made sure he was able to speak smoothly and calmly without the taint of cynicism. Fortunately, Christine was in no hurry; the quarter hour of silence was uncomfortable only in that she needed to get off her injured leg.

A thousand protests sounded stridently in his mind: _too ugly, too reclusive, too angry, too old, not worthy, not meant to be, repulsive, wrong! _These thoughts would never pass into sound; he would not demean the moment.

"Christine Daae, nothing in the world could make me happier."


	54. To Sparkle

**A/N: Considering the appearance of this chapter, my estimate of 2 or 3 might be conservative. I may have to extend that to 4 or 5. **

**To Sparkle **

"They want me backstage at six-thirty. You will have to be there with me." Christine spoke from inside the bathroom, where she balanced on one foot and tried to wrap her hair around her large-barreled hair curler.

"Why? I thought I could watch from the back of the auditorium…"

"They have no assistants for me – they weren't expecting me to be one-legged. They asked if I had anyone to assist me with my cello; I said yes."

"What will I have to do?" Erik fiddled with his own hair, arranging it under the fedora and wishing he had cut it so that it would be less trouble. Christine, however, would not hear of him cutting his hair any shorter. She liked running her fingers through it.

"Just carry the thing there for me, and in between numbers, help me and it out onto the stage. And then off again." Finally, the last strands fell into place. _Not half bad, _she thought and made kissy-faces at herself in the mirror. A new aquamarine dress in empire style emphasized her soft curves, the long skirtbrushed the floor to hide her cast, her makeup was carefully applied, her mouse-colored hair arranged in smooth curls. She had no suitable jewelry, but that could not be helped. She felt prettier than she ever had in her entire life.

When she emerged from the restroom, Erik could only smile. She looked pretty now; he could only imagine how she would shine when she began to play.

"My lovely Christine." He took her hands, not wanting to muss a single detail with a hug. "You are very beautiful – but the look just isn't complete." He reached into the pockets of his formal suit to find two satiny boxes: one larger and one smaller. He set the boxes on the hotel room dresser.

"Come, my dear. Let me shower you in jewels." His smile was mischievous and huge. She approached shyly, unsure of how to behave in this very unusual situation.

The larger box held a necklace of natural pearls, with a matching bracelet. He fastened these on her neck and wrist, then stood back to survey the results.

"Like an angel. I knew pearls would be just the thing for that delicate complexion. But it still is not finished." He opened the smaller box ceremoniously. Its contents sparkled brilliantly. Christine's covered her open mouth with her hand – which Erik promptly took in his. "It was the most beautiful stone I could find. I hoped to match your sparkle. But I failed; you outshine it by far." He slid the ring on her finger, then kissed her hand.

"It...it's gorgeous! Everything is so beautiful! Erik! When – how! - did you do all this!" She stood on her tip-toes to kiss him lightly. (She couldn't muss her make-up; there was no time for reapplication) "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ so much. Oh wow, oh my goodness..." she was breathless. "And...how did you know my ring size? I never told you..."

Erik had not released her hand. He put his other hand next to hers. "I know your hands as I know my own. Your ring finger is exactly the size of my little finger."

Had the pearls been plastic and the ring been tin, that would have raised them above the Hope diamond in her heart. Christine melted like butter in a hot oven. "When did I fall into a fairy-tale?" she mused aloud. "I love you."

"If this is a fairy-tale, my love, then the Princess is about to be late to her ball. Let's go, sweetheart." He handed her crutches across and helped her out the door.

The auditorium was a grand place, Erik got chills just from his initial inspection of the acoustics. There was a reception in the lobby for guests; students buzzed around backstage tuning their instruments, rifling through sheet music, and conversing nervously among themselves. Dr. Corringer stood at the doorway watching his flock.He brightened visibly when Christine walked in.

"Ah! Christine, I am glad you could make it. We were all very sorry to hear about your injury." He paused, looking at Erik curiously.

"Thank you. Dr. Corringer, this is Erik Valliere, my fiancé. He is also my assistant tonight."

The distinguished man extended his hand. Erik shook it quickly and firmly, doing his best to show no unease.

"It is nice to meet you, sir." It came out somewhat mechanically, but it was a long time since Erik had last been asked to follow social etiquette.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, indeed. The board and I were much impressed by your skill on the violin. Perhaps, later, you will be kind enough to give us a private concert?" Erik gave a quick nod.

Christine took a few steps away and gestured to her old Dean.

"Excuse us Erik, I need to talk to Dr. Corringer privately for a moment."

When Erik was finally shooed far enough away to give them real privacy, Christine opened her cello case and pulled her hotel key from the rosin-box pouch. She gave it to the Dean with a smile and few whispers. After a moment he nodded and left the room.

"What was that all about, Christine?"

"I was just settling some old issues. It was nothing you should worry about." Her tone was artificially light. Erik pursed his lips.

"I'm worried."

She only laughed.

"Everyone!" A woman in a black formal gown with silver beading stood on the stage steps. She was obviously a singer; her voice carried clearly, though she certainly was not shouting. "The audience is being seated. Jazz Ensemble is first. Please be ready."

The nervous chatter and tuning noise died away entirely. Those students in the Jazz Ensemble took their places near the stage door. Christine had to smile – they looked so young, though the oldest was only three years her junior.

Erik found Christine a chair, then stood beside her. To Christine, it felt very much as though she were being guarded, and that was actually the case. Erik knew the terrible events of years before would not be repeated, but he could not help feeling that this place was a threat to Christine.

"Excuse me?" They looked over to see a very pretty eighteen-year-old clutching her cello case. She giggled nervously, then looked over her shoulder at a small group of students standing a few feet away. "I'm Sam. My friends and I took a road trip to Seattle about a month ago during Spring Break. While we were there, we happened to see a performance in the park. It was a group called _Strange Noise. _You two look exactly like them. Are you them?"

Christine smiled and nodded. "Wow. We never expected anyone this far away to recognize us."

"Well, I have some friends who live in Seattle. They call me and we play your performances over the computer through their cell phones. The quality isn't great, but it's pretty exciting. Nobody listens to classical and jazz anymore – but you guys are making it happen. Because of you guys, when we leave here we might actually have an audience to play to."

"Are there recordings?" Erik's curiosity finally overwhelmed his taciturnity.

Sam looked back to her friends again. Her expression confused Erik, but Christine recognized it and felt the little green demon start dancing in her head. This girl and her friends all had groupie-crushes on Erik. _Tall, slender, imposing, mysterious...and they don't get the Seattle Times. Watch out, Christine! _She listened with amused concern to the alarm bells in her head.

Giggling more, now that he had addressed her directly, Sam nodded. "They're really hard to hear, though..."

"Well, they are the only ones in existence. We have never made one of our own."

"Cool! You guys want to come over to the dorms after the show and listen? Maybe we could jam a little?" The hopeful look on the girl's face charmed Erik completely; when had a complete stranger ever invited him to do anything?

"We'll see," Christine responded coolly, "We've had a long drive, and I do have a broken leg..."

"Oh." Sam's face fell, then brightened. "Maybe another time?"

"Absolutely." Erik interjected, before Christine could refuse again. "If not tonight."

Sam ran over to her group and communicated the news. There was a round of subdued squealing and clapping. Erik looked down at Christine, his lips twisted in an amused grin.

"Groupies..." she whispered to him. "Get used to it."

"Groupies." He laughed. "Amazing. Speaking of amazing, my dear, you are on next."

Christine stood and hobbled over to the steps. Erik held her crutches out, but she shook her head. "I would _never_ use those things on stage. That is what _you_ are for."

While Erik was working out the logistics of chair, cello, and woman, a young man in an usher uniform sneaked in the exit, carrying a very familiar black violin case.


	55. And Shine

**And Shine**

The house lights were low, permitting the performer to survey her audience. Christine looked out over the well-dressed gathering, thinking how exactly like that dreadful night everything looked. She fancied she could see the faces of her old tormentors among the strangers. Erik had kissed her cheek before leaving the stage. He imagined she could still feel his lips on her cheek and his strong arm around her. It was the only thing keeping her onstage. _They've put stringent protections in place, _she thought, _It can never happen again._

The music swirled in her mind. She needed no sheet music; Erik had rehearsed her until her fingers moved along an imaginary fingerboard in her sleep. She lifted her bow and began. When she and Erik played together, they often fell inside the music. At school that had never happened because the external pressure to perform was too great. Now, though, she was older and wiser. There was no pressure in this situation if she compared it to the night on the ledge. For the woman who had dragged a man back from death's gaping maw, the stage no longer held any threat. The Gigue flowed from her like water.

Erik had slipped out into the audience. The ushers recognized him as the performer's assistant and allowed him to sit in an empty seat near the front. He'd wanted to watch her perform, to see if she truly would shine like an angel. His greatest expectations were surpassed. It was not only the glow of performance, but also the light of triumph that shone in her face, lending her an ethereal air.

This audience was more sensitive to music than the average park crowd. They knew every nuance of musicianship. They knew the value of passion and of technique -and the difference between the two. Erik tore his eyes away from Christine long enough to take in the crowd's response. He saw faces stilled in wonder and chests barely rising with the intake of breath. They could see her (in some part) as he saw her; the thought made him giddy. She deserved to be seen. When she finished, he found himself on his feet along with the rest of the audience applauding hard enough to sting his hands. He heard a voice – a chorus of voices, his among them – shouting for an encore.

Gradually, the audience quieted and sat down. Christine stood, using her chair for support and managed a bow.

"Thank you. You are all very kind. Dr. Corringer has informed me that I am permitted an encore, if the audience is willing." Here, she was interrupted by a polite round of applause; the audience was letting her know that they were, indeed, willing. "But I cannot give you an encore tonight without my accompanist. So please welcome Mr. Erik Valliere to the stage."

The audience rose again, applauding and looking to the stage expectantly. Erik choked. _She can't do that!_ But then he remembered her private conversation with the Dean and his assenting nod. _I haven't got my violin. Can't play without it..._ But now Sam was on the stage, holding his violin and bow reverently. How had she gotten it? He rose and walked up the stage steps, thoroughly roped.

Again, the audience burst into applause. Erik took his violin from Sam with a curt nod and a muttered, "Thanks." Once he stood beside Christine, though, he looked out over the audience and realized that he had no room to be upset over his beloved's little deception. All she had done was bring his dream into reality – the dream he had never shared with anyone, even her. _How did she know? _ And then he heard his own words, _"I know your hands as I know my own." _Apparently she knew his dreams the same way – by heart.

This was not Carnegie Hall, but these were the same people who attended performances at Carnegie Hall. It was the same audience in miniature. He was not backed by a great Philharmonic Orchestra, but the woman sitting beside him was possibly the most talented cellist in the world. They were looking at him, not with disgust and not with pity, but with anticipation. Giving Christine a little nod, he put his violin to his chin and lifted his bow proudly.

Dr. Corringer, along with those responsible for grading the performers, listened in awe stricken silence. They recognized the tune well enough; after all, they had a recording in Christine Daae's portfolio. But this was far different in tone, quality, and texture. A recording, no matter the quality, could not capture the perfect synchronicity and power of these two artists.

Over the past two months, Erik and Christine's love for one another had grown and deepened. Their music reflected the harmony of this mutual bond. The professors looked at one another and then to the evaluation sheets in front of them. The attempt to 'grade' a virtuoso like Christine suddenly felt foolish. None of these people, accomplished musicians in their own right, felt qualified to pass judgment on the miracle they were hearing.

Too soon, the piece ended. The audience had given a standing ovation to Christine alone; now, after a prayerful moment of silence, they burst out in cheers and whistles as well as applause. It was not tradition, nor was it decorous, but it seemed the only fitting response. Erik helped Christine to her foot. They bowed together and left the stage.


	56. The Long Drive Home

**The Long Drive Home**

Pleased as they were by their success, both Erik and Christine were compelled by necessity to retire early. Christine's leg, only six days into the healing process, reminded her with a dull, grinding ache that it wanted rest. Erik could see that she was uncomfortable, and that would have been enough on its own to spur him to leave, but he also needed to complete his nightly routine. Also, as much as loved the idea of the masses' admiration, he was not used to being surrounded by groups of people all clamoring at once for his attention. Admittedly, these were cultured clamorers, so he lasted long than he might have before taking Christine's arm and saying pointedly, "Dearest, you look at though you need rest. I really think we must bid all our new friends goodnight."

_Smooth_, she thought, and then with some wry humor, _His public will love him. _Aloud, she nodded. "It has been lovely, but I think the doctor would take issue with the amount of time I've spent on it."

They made their goodbyes and headed back to the safe harbor of their hotel. Once Christine was settled on the bed, properly elevated and medicated, Erik shook his finger at her with mock severity.

"You are the conniving-est female that ever there was."

"They loved you." Christine smirked at him, confident that he was not the least angry with her. "And you loved it."

"I had little choice! You could at least have warned me beforehand." He leaned over to kiss the smirk off her face.

"I did. I gave you very fair warning. When you would not turn the car around I said, plain as day, _'I'll get you for this'. _That _is_ what I said, is it not?" He had kissed, but the smirk remained firmly in place. "Well, I got you. Consider us even."

"All that praise you received...and then we go back tomorrow morning at eight for you to be showered again."

"I have to go back to hear the committee's decision." She was innocence personified. "I'm sure they'll have a word or two to toss your way as well."

Erik glared at her. "Conniving. I should send you in there alone."

"And it was so _cute_ to watch you fend off all your little admirers. They wanted to eat you up like chocolate ice-cream." Christine had to vent a little; she'd spent the evening watching pretty, talented young girls flirt covertly and overtly with her fiancé. "Soon I will have to be on the lookout for a new violinist..."

"Christine Daae!" Erik chuckled, "You are jealous?"

"Not." her plump lower lip made its pouting appearance.

"You are!" Erik stripped to his boxers, tossing everything carelessly on the floor. "Not that I can blame you." He turned in a slow circle, displaying his thin, pale body. "I mean, what woman wouldn't go nuts over this?"

"I don't know. This medicine has made my eyes all blurry." She crooked a finger at him. "Bring it over here, and let me take a closer look."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Christine kept shaking her head and muttering, "I just don't believe it." Erik let it go on for several minutes, but eventually his patience wore thin.

"Believe it. They said it, it's on paper, it's official. So believe it and let's move on to the next topic. Please."

The committee had voted unanimously to graduate Christine with full honors. They'd gone on to offer both musicians letters of introduction and references to any orchestra for which they might choose to audition. Christine and Erik were treated as peers throughout the interview.

Now, on the ride home, Christine couldn't stop smiling. She had dreaded the Conservatory for so long, it had become a looming tidal wave hanging ominously over her. Now that the ordeal was over, the tsunami had turned out to be a little ripple on a quiescent lake.

Still, she would have drowned if not for Erik. The ring sparkled on her finger, reminding her with every ray of sunshine that they would soon be bound by law as well as love. Soon, she would be his and he would be hers.

"Erik, where is your father?" She had not forgotten that they had a stop to make before home.

"He's in Spokane." Erik looked in the rearview mirror. Christine was studying him carefully. "I haven't seen him in many years, Christine. I haven't even spoken to him. It's not from anger, if that's what you are thinking. It's..." The joy from their triumph had evaporated. "A long time ago, I bet you don't even remember, I asked you why you wanted to go and open Pandora's box. You've seen so many evils fly free, I suppose you think there can't be anymore."

She only sat quietly and waited. He would work his way around to his point in time. Her role now was supportive and quiet.

"What happened to my father may be the last thing in this particular box."

A day later they pulled into the visitor parking lot of the Parkview Estates, a progressive nursing home. Erik helped her out of the car and then stood there, staring at the building.

"I wouldn't tell you anything about him because all I know is what Nadir has told me. I honestly don't know what we're going to see. It has been more than fifteen years." Erik breathed deeply. "Recently all Nadir will say is '_there's not much left.'_"

Hand in hand they entered the building. The smell of age, illness, and industrial cleansers assaulted them, even though the visible clients all looked very well taken care of. There were somethings that marked a nursing home, no matter its quality.

Erik approached the receptionist and muttered, "Here to see Jonathan Valliere."

The receptionist stared at the masked man for a moment, unsure of how to respond.

Christine stepped forward and smiled disarmingly. "Yes. We are here to see my father-in-law. Where can we find him?"

Her easy manner put the woman at ease. "He's in room 249, ma'am. Down that hall, you can take the stairs or elevator, and then take a left. Knock, but don't wait for an answer. Just go on in."

"Thank you very much." Christine gently pulled Erik along behind her.

Erik stared at the name tag on the door for awhile. "Before we go in, you should know that his condition is my fault. He started drinking when I was about twelve. Because of what the surgeries were doing to me, and to the family. My mother left and he just couldn't handle it without some kind of help. The worse my face got, the more he drank. He was never violent, like some are. He just...let it take him away. The last time I saw him, he was so slopped he couldn't even say my name without drooling." Many sons would have been speaking out of anger. There was no anger in Erik's voice; only sorrow and guilt.

"How is that your fault, Erik?" She'd wrapped a protective arm around his waist.

"If I'd never been born, my mother would never have left, and he would never have touched the stuff."

"It was her decision to leave and his decision to drink, love. Not yours." She hugged him. "Can you do this now?"


	57. Pandora's Gift

**Pandora's Gift**

In response, he turned the handle and walked into the room. Christine waited in the doorway a moment, respectfully allowing Erik time alone with his father. The man sat propped up in bed, his eyes fixed on a television broadcasting a gameshow. There were three bags on an IV drip line and evidence that a gastric tube was in use. Though the face was much altered with age and drink, Erik could still recognize his father.

"Dad?" Erik stood by the bed, not knowing what to do. "Hi, Dad, it's Erik."

Jonathan turned his head to regard his son. "Erik is my son."

"That's right. I'm your son." Erik looked to Christine, pleading with her to come in and help him. She joined him at the bedside, but her mind was a blank.

"I know that...there's a thing that I know." In the fog that remained of his mind, Jonathan remembered the masked person standing next to him. As was usually the case with alcoholic dementia, he could remember things from long ago better than recent things.

"That's right. I'm Erik. Your son." Oh, but this was bitter. "Dad, I want you to meet someone. This is Christine. She will be your daughter soon. I am going marry her."

"'Livia!" Jonathan exclaimed, memories of his own wedding teasing the corners of his mind.

"No, sir. I'm Christine. I will marry Erik." She looked to Erik for approval. _Was that ok? s_he mouthed. He nodded and shrugged.

"That's nice. That's nice. Christine will marry Erik." A long pause. "Erik is my son." Jonathan seemed to be thinking very hard while staring up at Erik. "They will cut his face tomorrow."

"No Dad, that already happened. That's over." Erik shifted from foot to foot. Why had he waited so long? Nadir was right. There was almost nothing left.

"He will be alone and they will...with the doctors." The old man on the bed smiled at Christine. "I read the book."

"That's good," she said, trying to sound cheerful. _What book?_ she mouthed.

Erik threw his mind back to times he'd happily forgotten. What book? Of course, his father could be referring to any book, but Erik remembered his father reading to him. There were several books they'd shared, but his all-time favorite had been:

"Dad, you read 'The Adventures of Huck Finn? That book?" It was one of the better memories of a bad time. His father had sat by his bed, tirelessly reading about Huck Finn and all the terrible scrapes the wild little boy got himself into. Through the book, Erik could leave the hospital and be somewhere else -somewhere infinitely more exciting – for a little while.

"I read that book." Was it just Erik's imagination, or was there a gleam of recognition in his father's loosely focused eyes?

"You did read that book. I loved it." Erik felt Christine's hand on his own, lifting it, moving it, placing it on top of his father's limp hand, holding it there.

"Tell him you love him," she whispered.

He stared at her, panicked. He couldn't do that! He'd never done that in his life.

"Do it, Erik." Christine was adamant. Having lived more in the world than Erik had, she understood last chances better than he did.

"Dad?"

Jonathan looked at the man beside him. When had that man come in the room? That man was wearing a mask. A mask?

"Who's in my house?" he asked, sounding a bit agitated.

"Dad, it's me, Erik. Your son." _It's over, _Erik thought_, If he remembered me for a minute, it's over now. _But it wasn't.

_"_Erik's home, 'Livia." Another ghostly smile crossed the blank face.

_Never once in my life. _Erik glanced at Christine, who poked him in the ribs.

"That's right, Mr. Valliere," she said. "Erik's home. He wants to tell you something." Her free hand switched from poking to hugging. _Come on Erik. You say it to me all the time._

"Dad. I love you." He was immediately rewarded by a kiss on the cheek from Christine. His father, however, appeared not to have heard at all.

They stayed with him for several more minutes, until a knock at the door admitted one of the staff carting an empty wheelchair. She was a sprightly young CNA, who nodded to the visitors before focusing on her patient.

"Hi there, Mr. Valliere! I'm Kelly, your favorite person in the world. We're going to take your shower now." She expertly maneuvered the old man out of his bed and into the chair. "Excuse us folks, but it's best for Mr. Valliere to stay on his schedule. We'll be back in about half an hour, if you care to wait?"

"No. No, thank you. We were just about to leave." Erik could not tear his eyes away from his father. "Goodbye, Dad. We are leaving now, but we'll come back to visit you very soon. I promise."

Christine patted Jonathan's shoulder. "Very soon."

They started to walk out the door, when the nurse stopped them. "Don't go yet," she chirped, "he wants to tell you something."

They turned around, but saw no change in Jonathan's face or posture. How did Kelly know? She was holding one finger up, telling them to wait. They waited.

"Erik is my son. I love my son." He fell silent. That was apparently all he had to say.

Kelly felt the awkwardness in the room and decided to handle it as she did all awkwardness: by saying something happy, then ending the situation. "That's so sweet. It's good to love people. It feels good. Ok, showertime." She wheeled Jonathan away.

Likewise, Christine gave Erik a gentle squeeze and began urging him towards the exit, prodding him with her crutch tip when he slowed. He kept looking back over his shoulder, beginning to learn what Christine already knew about last chances.

Once they reached the car, she set her crutches aside and held him tightly. "You said I opened Pandora's box, right?"

He nodded.

"And that was the last evil to fly out?"

Another nod.

"Do you remember the rest of that myth? After all the evil had escaped, there was still one thing left in the box. Do you remember what that last thing was?"

A shake of the head.

"The last thing in the box, my love, was Hope." She kissed him and climbed into the car.


	58. Home Again

**Coming Home**

They were on the road again, with a little more than four hours' drive ahead of them. Erik seemed totally absorbed with the _Kid A_ cd playing on the stereo. Christine sensed his need to spend some time in his own mind. The visit with Erik's father had started her own wheels turning.

She wasn't wildly popular, and since her time had been evenly divided between music and Erik she'd become even less so. Despite that, she could instantly think of five unrelated people she could call in an emergency who would probably be willing to help her. There were neglected old friendships she could revive with a call and a visit. Erik, on the other hand, had been speaking truth when he'd said that Nadir constituted his entire family and all of his friends. And Nadir was not young.

She'd become accustomed to his mannerisms even before they'd first spoken to each other over the microphone. Her fondness for him had made his strangeness endearing; falling in love with him had blinded her to it entirely. Watching him with strangers, she'd come to realize that he had no idea how to interact with people. _He's never learned because he's never actually _been_ a person. He's been a patient, and a freak, and a criminal, and a monster, and a genius – but I'm the first one to ever expect him to be a regular human being. He'll have to learn._

Music and Christine were rapidly dragging him out into the light. Suddenly, there were people who knew of him and admired him. It remained to be seen how _Strange Noise_'s popularity would survive the publishing of Erik's mugshots, but she had a sneaking suspicion that they would survive just fine. Some people might be turned away, but the majority would stay - for the music. People would want to know him; he wouldn't be able to hide himself away much longer. He had to learn to deal with people; she was the only one to teach him, which put him at a second disadvantage in her mind. How did one go about reintroducing a person to a world he had rejected because it had brutalized him?

"Slowly." she said, not meaning to speak the word aloud.

"I'm going the speed limit," Erik snapped.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't talking to you."

"To whom were you talking, then? There's no one else in the car." Now, he sounded annoyed as well as snappish.

"Myself. There's no need to get upset."

"I wasn't..."

_Lesson number one, _she thought. Keeping her voice friendly, she said, "Maybe not, but you've had a hard day and you _sounded _angry with me."

Erik did not reply. He went back to staring at the road, thinking about family, and his lack thereof. A moment later, he heard the beeping of Christine's cell phone.

"Hi Mom. It's me." She'd called her family. He bent his attention her way; it would be fascinating to hear her half of the conversation.

"Yeah. It's been awhile. Ok. I'll wait." There was a pause of a few seconds, followed by, "Dad, hi. No, this isn't my animated corpse. It's really me. How are you guys?" Her tone was a little abashed, but still easy and natural. Erik was instantly envious. "That's really good. I'm glad. You'll be the best one they've had in awhile, I bet...mm-hmm...Well, she'll just have to deal with it."

_She hasn't said anything about _us_ yet. Why not?_

"Me? Oh, that's why I called. A lot has happened since the last time we talked. See, I met a guy...an editor, but he's also a musician. In fact, he's a lot more of a musician than he is an editor...Yes, he has a degree...Yes, he has his own place. Actually, he doesn't have his own place anymore, since I moved in."

Here there was a space of several minutes where Christine only made the occasional exasperated noise. Finally, she had apparently had enough and broke in curtly. "I'm an adult. So's he. We're very happy. In fact, I'm calling because we are engaged...Well, of course we haven't planned it yet. We only just got engaged on our way to the Conservatory...Yes. Lawrence. Erik – that's his name, Erik Valliere – got me to go back. I completed my degree two days ago...Thank you. Yes, I know..." The conversation continued this vein for sometime. Erik's attention wandered until he heard, "Yes, you really do have to meet him soon – before he's your son...Tomorrow? Are you serious? Well, let me tell him and see what he says. He's had a hard few days."

She looked up from the phone. "Erik, my parents want to come up and meet you tomorrow. Are you up to it?"

"Am I? A better question is, 'Are they?' You haven't told them anything." His morose mood was still on him.

"Why don't you?" She held out the phone to him.

"No!" he gripped the wheel even more tightly in his hands. "It...isn't safe to talk on the phone and drive at the same time."

"Chicken." Christine held the phone to her ear again. "It's still me. Yes, that was him...Very nice. It's half his charm." She laughed. "So we'll see you tomorrow." She repeated their address and gave some simple directions. "We'll look for you around lunchtime. Ok. Love you both. Bye." She closed her phone and pushed it back into her purse.

"You didn't tell them." His stated flatly.

"It's not mine to tell." She was just as matter of fact as he. "Besides, tomorrow is soon enough."

"Too soon." He growled the words, making his ire clear.

Christine finally had enough of his bad mood. She leaned over the driver's seat and tickled his neck. "The soon-to-be Mr Daae needs to lighten up..." She nipped his ear lightly, then kissed his neck along the line her fingers had traced.

Erik held onto his grim visage for about two seconds. "The future Mrs. Valliere needs to remember that we are still on a highway, and she is distracting the driver..."

Christine giggled softly in his ear and snaked an arm down the front of his shirt. "If my betrothed will only grant me his smile, I will gladly let him go back to the tedious task at hand."

"Someday, Christine, I will figure out how to tell you no." He was smiling against his will.

"I hope not. I like when you say yes..."

It was such a relief to be home that Erik decided to put off returning the car until the next morning. Once again consigned to the sofa, Christine played light airs on the flute while Erik went about the chores of putting away their luggage and preparing dinner. He carefully avoided the music room as he had done since that night, not yet able to face the specter of his anger.

"I have a request for tomorrow..." Christine caught Erik on one of his passes through the living room.

"Yes?"

"Would you make the rabbit dish again? My parents will _love _it." Christine's mouth watered with the memory of the succulent rabbit in wine sauce.

"What are they like?" Erik decided now was as good a time as any for a break.

"My parents?"

He nodded.

"Well, I don't know. They're nice enough, I guess. My Mom always wants to take care of everybody – she'll probably try to kick you out of the kitchen. And my Dad never says anything unless he's joking around. So if he teases you, you know he's starting to like you. Only worry if he doesn't tease you..."

"Wonderful. I'm supposed to look _forward_ to being teased now?" Erik was incredulous. "And what are you going to tell them about the mask?"

"I'm not going to tell them anything. I already told you that." She reached up and slipped the offending piece of leather from his face. "You'll have to tell them whatever it is you think they need to know."

"Christine..."

"Absolutely not. Erik, don't worry so much. If you can stop worrying long enough to behave around them the way you do with me, they'll love you." She ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it and soothing his nerves. "My parents are the last people on Earth you have to be afraid of. They raised me, so they can't be that bad, right?"

He didn't reply. He only forced a smile and pulled her close.

"And Erik? My parents haven't seen Meg in a long, long time. She's their 'other daughter'. I'm going to invite her over tomorrow evening."

Erik still did not reply. He simply let go of her and toppled over on the couch. It was obvious now; she was trying to kill him.


	59. Parenthood

**Parenthood**

It was eleven-thirty. The apartment was so clean, it glistened. Erik still strode from room to room, wiping incidental dust from places no one would ever think to look and basting the baking rabbit to ensure perfect juiciness. He was wearing his black suit, and continually smoothed his shirt and adjusted his tie. He even looked at himself in the bathroom mirror several times, just to be sure everything was in place. The replacement mirror was larger than the original; it had attached bare lightbulbs that cast an unforgiving light over anyone who dared use them.

Christine was exhausted just watching him bustle about. He'd been at it since seven o'clock, and though he absolutely forbade her from lending a hand, (the doctor recommended minimal use for the first four weeks) he constantly returned to her for advice on her parents' preferences. Did they like white wine, or red? Did her mother like roses or wildflowers more? Did her father prefer to have a late lunch, or would he expect to eat the moment they arrived?

"Erik, love, please sit. You are making me dizzy."

"Everything needs to be perfect." He glared critically around the apartment.

"No, it really doesn't. I had the messiest room in the tri-state area for years. They'll just be glad I'm not up to my hips in crud."

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Erik turned as though he would answer it, but froze. "They're going to hate me."

Christine pried herself off the couch with a sigh and a shake of her head. She answered the door and was immediately engulfed in hugs. Erik watched from his station by the sofa. It was beautiful to him – there was a music in their loving familiarity.

He saw that Christine looked almost exactly like her mother, though her mother was considerably larger. She was short, rosy and plump, with curly short hair and a wrinkled, smiling face that spoke volumes about her pleasant nature. Christine's father was taller and less plump, though he was still a large man. He was balding and steel grey, but his devil-may-care grin told the world he didn't give a damn. Together, they seemed a jovial pair.

All too soon, the moment ended and Christine was leading her parents across to him. Erik drew himself up straight and tried his best not to appear nervous. As he had done with Christine, he used his voice to try to impress them enough to ignore his appearance.

"Mom, Dad, this is Erik."

Erik watched their faces, noting as they took in his mask and looked to one another with confusion. They looked to Christine for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

He extended a hand to her mother first. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Daae."

She shook his hand and nodded. "It's wonderful to meet the man who has captured out daughter's heart. She tells us you are quite the musician..."

"She flatters me." He turned to her father. "And it's very nice to meet you, sir."

Christine's father waved a dismissive hand. "Call me Harry. It's name and description."

"Dad!" Christine plastered her hand over her face."

"I don't hold with all this 'sir' and 'ma'am' business. Never have." He sat down on the sofa and looked around. "Very nice. I would have assumed that Christine'd have it wrecked by now."

Christine stayed firmly ensconced behind her hand.

"That smells lovely, Erik. What is it?" Christine's mother was halfway to the kitchen.

"It's rabbit, Mrs. Daae." Feeling brave, he dared to extend the statement. "Christine warned me that you would try to get in the kitchen. But you are a guest. Please make yourself comfortable in the living room, and I will bring you a glass of wine."

"It's Brenda, Erik. And thank you." She allowed herself to be shooed back to the living room and settled in the La-Z Boy. Erik brought everyone a glass of wine, then disappeared into the kitchen with a sigh of relief. Nice, they were. Comfortable, he was not. From the kitchen, he could watch while they conversed without being drawn into the conversation.

Christine had dragged her cello and his violin out, and was in the process of setting up to play a bit of the Gigue for her parents. Before she could begin, her mother asked the burning question:

"Is there something we're missing? He seems a nice enough man, but I don't understand the mask. It it a creative thing? Or something for special occasions?"

Christine shook her head. "Neither of those. But I'll tell you - I already told him- that I'm not going to explain everything."

Erik groaned quietly. She really was going to make him choose between explaining himself or enduring her parents' curious stares all day long.

Her father put in his two cents. "Well, that seems fair. You've got enough explaining to do as it is, not calling your parents for almost two years, and when you finally call you've graduated college, gotten engaged, and moved in with a man. And you have a broken leg. I wasn't going to say anything, but there you sit with a cast..."

Without blinking an eye, Christine responded snappily, "What can I say... long distance charges are hell." In the kitchen, Erik chuckled softly.

Harry laughed appreciatively – his daughter had inherited his wit. "We have your number now, missie. You won't be able to dodge for another two years."

"I don't intend to. I'm sorry for not calling. Now listen. You haven't heard me play in quite sometime. I've improved." She played for them while Erik served the plates. Only when she had finished did he bring out the trays.

"I apologize for the lack of a table. We don't entertain often." The stiff, formal tone would not leave his voice. Christine's mother was in the overstuffed chair and Christine had appropriated the computer chair for her cello session. Harry was on the sofa, making room for his son-in-law to be.

"Come on. Sit down. Take a load off."

Erik complied, sitting stiffly at the opposite end of the sofa. Everyone began to eat, and the expected compliments on the quality of the food were handed out. Quite unexpectedly, Christine's mother decided to discuss the 'elephant in the living room'.

"Erik, wouldn't you be more comfortable eating without the mask?"

"No, Brenda. It's fine."

"It just seems like it would be more comfortable..." Her voice tapered off into an uncomfortable silence. In it, Christine made little 'go ahead' gestures at Erik, who pointedly looked elsewhere.

After awhile, it became too awkward to bear. Speaking to his plate, Erik muttered, "It's not for my comfort. It's for yours."

"How's that?" Harry fixed his eye on the taciturn man beside him. "I have to say, for my part, it's not terribly comfortable eating next to a guy who looks like he's trying out for a part as Zorro..."

"Dad!" Christine exclaimed, seeing Erik begin to fold in on himself.

"Really, Harold. That was uncalled for," her mother remonstrated.

"No. That's fine. He's right." Erik set his plate aside. These were Christine's parents, and soon they'd be his. His secret would not stay a secret forever; now was as good a time as any. "The mask is not...an accessory. It covers..." He stopped. "I'm sorry, Christine. I can't." Ashamed, he began to stand up, only to be stopped by a strong, hairy hand on his arm.

"Don't worry about it. Sit down and eat." Harry resumed gustation as though nothing had happened.

There was something in the off-hand way the subject was dismissed that set Erik at ease and gave him the courage to continue.

"It's disfigured. Not good to look at while you're eating." He picked up his plate and forced a few bites down. Christine was smiling at him with pride he hardly felt he deserved.

"It can't be that bad," Brenda was trying to be comforting, considering she's introduced the topic. "And we're about to be family. You really should just make yourself at home."

"No, Mom. Just leave it alone, ok?" Casting about for a suitably distracting topic, Christine remembered, "Did I mention that Meg will be over a little after four?"

"Really. That will be nice. How is Meg, anyway? Has she got that degree she wanted yet?"

Thus diverted, talk did not return to the thorny issue of the mask. It touched on every other topic, though. Brenda revealed that she'd written for her college newspaper, and engaged Erik in a long an convoluted discussion about editing and publishing that soon left Christine and her father far behind. Eventually, the topic veered towards _Strange Noise _and their unlooked-for success. Harry demanded a performance as soon as the dishes were carried away.

Now was Erik's chance to show his quality. In dinner-time chatting, he failed miserably; with his violin in hand, he suddenly became the most charming man on the western seaboard. Before they began playing, he pushed the wheeled computer chair with Christine in it out into the middle of the floor.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Center stage, my love, where you belong."

They played together for the next hour, charming their guests entirely. Unbeknownst to either musician, it was not the music which most beguiled their audience. Until the moment he touched her chair, Erik had seemed a surly, taciturn man, little suited to Christine. Both her parents were struggling to see what their daughter could possibly find to love in the man and coming up dry. When he touched her, though, it was plain. No strangers to love themselves (almost forty years of married bliss had taught them well) they recognized absolute devotion when they saw it. Every gesture, every word the masked man cast her way was sweetened with affection.

When the concert ended, Christine parents applauded vigorously; Brenda wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. She walked over and gave Erik a motherly hug, which he did his best to accept with good grace.

"That was lovely. Just lovely. What a sweet pair you make."

"Don't smother the man, Brenda. You and Christine should go catch up on old times or something." Harry grinned wickedly at Erik. "Zorro and I have the very serious issue of a chess match to resolve." He gestured towards the onyx chess set tucked neatly in its corner.

_He's teasing me. That's a _good _thing. Just remember that's a _good_ thing. _Erik's mind bridled at the nickname, but he remembered Christine's warning that her father only teased those he liked. "Oh, do you play?"

"I dabble." The wicked grin had not faded.

"He played in high school and college. Don't let him fool you." Christine's mother dragged her out onto the porch.

Christine laughed. "Erik is going to wipe the floor with Dad."

"I don't think you give your father enough credit," Brenda's tone was scolding.

"I think you underestimate my fiancé," Christine sneered.

"Do I hear a bet?

"Yes, you do. If Dad beats Erik, I will allow you and Meg to pick my wedding dress. But if Erik beats Dad, you have to pay for the wedding. Deal?"

"Deal."

**A/N:drumroll please...**


	60. Convergence

**Convergence**

Meg got the call at nearly ten o'clock. Seeing the familiar number on the caller ID, she answered immediately with the appropriate mix of happiness and humility, "Hi Christine. I really hope my article helped, because I am _really _sorry about the other article. I didn't mean to, I mean I didn't think she'd use the information I gave her like that. I only told her his name, and even that just sl..."

Christine interrupted the remorseful outpouring. "My parents are coming up to visit tomorrow. Do you want to come over and see them?" Her tone was less friendly than she meant it to be; some anger for the ordeal she and Erik had suffered still remained.

"Yes! But why are they coming up? You haven't seen them in forever."

Christine took a deep breath and prepared to quickly move the phone away from her ear. "I got my degree and Erik and I are engaged," she blurted.

The ensuing shrieks and squeals seemed to reverberate up her arm and into her brain. It was a prototypical Meg reaction. "Engaged! You're _engaged?_ When did that happen? When's the wedding? Where! Can I be maid of honor? I know you're mad at me, but can I still be your maid of honor? And OH! You have to wear off-white because of your complexion. And you have to have a huge train – like we made with sheets when we were little...and a huge skirt. Hoops! And lots of lace. Crystal beading..."

"We haven't planned anything yet, Meg. We can talk about it when you come over _after four_ tomorrow. Ok? Come over _after four pm." _Hoping that Meg had heard above her gushing excitement, Christine said, "I'll talk to you tomorrow. I have to sleep now. Bye," and hung up.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Christine and her mother sat on the porch talking for two full hours, while Erik and Harry battled each other on the chess board. Though Brenda did not mention it, Christine could tell that she was dying of curiosity over Erik's face. Erik had done his best with his brief explanation; no more could be asked of him. Christine decided that she would explain to her mother and let her mother explain to her father in private, thus sparing Erik more discomfort and assuaging her parents' inevitable curiosity.

"Mom, I know you are thinking about Erik's mask." Her mother looked up, startled, but obviously guilty. "And that's ok. I was curious about it too, when I met him. I've seen his face, so I can answer any questions you have left, but please don't ask him about it or ask him to take the mask off again. He won't and you'll just make him uncomfortable."

"Really dear, it can't be that bad. What is it, burns?" It was the worst thing Brenda could think of – maybe Erik had been badly burned in an accident.

"No. When he was a baby there was an infection..." Christine explained Erik's problem to her mother quietly, as Erik had explained it to her. She didn't mention the pain that he still suffered or the way she had reacted the first time she saw it. Those things seemed too private. "So, yes, it really is 'that bad'. It looks worse than burns. But the worst part is what has happened to Erik because of it. That's why I would appreciate it if you wouldn't bring it up to him again, and if you would tell Dad what I've told you. He can tease Erik about anything else, but please not about taking the mask off."

Brenda was a tender-hearted woman. She imagined her own daughter in Erik's place and shivered at the thought. "The poor man. But Christine, are you sure you want to marry a man with that kind of problems? It sounds like it's a lot to deal with."

"I'm sure. He's rigid around strangers, but when he gets used to you, you'll see..."

"Oh, I saw that he loves you very much, Christine. He makes that obvious every time he looks at you. But I just want to be sure that you are ready to deal with this for the rest of your life."

"I am."

"Then let's go find out who won our bet. It looks like they've finished playing."

"And Meg will be here in the next few minutes."

They came back into the apartment to find the two men deep in a debate about the Reti opening.

"So," Christine interjected, "Who won?"

"A tie." Erik grumbled. "Two and two. We were about to start a fifth game when you ladies walked in."

"Well, we can't..." A knock at the door interrupted whatever Brenda was about to say.

Erik dropped his head into his hands. There was only one other person expected today. Christine opened the door to admit Meg, who grabbed her in a bear hug. After a moment, two decades of friendship won out and Christine returned the hug. Meg then attacked the Daae's, whom she had not seen for so long.

While the newcomer and Christine's parents caught up on the news, Christine stumped over to Erik and leaned against him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and bent down to kiss the top of her head.

Brenda's voice carried quite clearly across the room, saying, "Oh yes. We've heard. You and I get to pick the dress, but Harold has to pay for the wedding," which was followed by grunts of protest from the presumed payer.

"What's that about?" Erik whispered, his breath tickling Christine's ear.

She shivered with pleasure and sincerely considered asking all the guests to leave. "My mother and I made a bet on your game. Apparently, she has decided that the tie means we both win – or lose – depending on your point of view..."

For some reason, it was incredibly important to Erik that she'd bet on him, but he didn't want to give that away. "What, exactly, was the bet?"

The three converged on the two, preventing Christine from answering.

Meg approached Erik diffidently, her hands in her sleeves. "It was very kind of you to agree to have me over again. I never did get a chance to really apologize for..."

Erik moved to Christine's side so that he would not appear to be hiding behind her. "Never mind that. You are Christine's friend. That is all that matters." His voice was low and pleasant, even friendly; his eyes spoke a different story. _You are not forgiven, not by me,_ those flashing eyes said, _and I have not yet decided whether you ever will be. _

"I think we should order out pizza." Brenda felt the tension and decided to break it. "Erik has done enough cooking for today, and we have a wedding to plan."

All being in accord, pizza was ordered and the small group sat down to a pleasant discussion of weddings. Erik and Christine curled up on the couch and listened with amusement to fanciful descriptions of elaborate ceremonies. There was talk of chapels and guest lists, but when Meg and Brenda began talking about receiving lines and Erik's deathgrip on her hand had begun to numb it, Christine broke in.

"This is all very nice, but I think that a very simple, quiet, _private_ ceremony _just_ for our closest friends and family would be more suited to us." The pressure on her hand immediately lessened. Had Erik known Christine's true plans, he would not have relaxed so easily.

"I agree. I think Christine and I would like to compose our own vows – the officiator need only be there for legal purposes." Erik opened his mouth for the first time during the entire conversation. If Christine had enthusiastically agreed to a huge, elaborate wedding, he would have endured it for her, but now that she was promoting a private ceremony, he jumped to bolster the idea.

"But we still get to pick Christine's dress, right?" Meg sounded distressed.

Christine laughed and nodded.

"And I will still have a bank account at the end of the day," muttered Harold, who had been listening with distress to the ever more expensive machinations of his wife and 'other daughter'."


	61. Triumphant Return

**Triumphant Return**

Her parents left town two days later. When they left, Brenda hugged Erik warmly and Harold shook his hand while patting him firmly on the shoulder. They both declared how lovely it had been to meet him and how happy they were that he would soon become their son-in-law. Neither blinked an eye when he did not return the affectionate gestures - they understood.

"We'll be back in three months," warned Harold, "You better get your chess game in order by then, Zorro. Who knows what bets the women will make in the meantime!"

Christine's mother kissed her and said, "Don't worry, dear, Meg and I will take care of the dress. All you have to do is try it on. We've already selected several styles. Oh, and expect some calls from us; now that we have your number, we _will _be in touch."

Christine wasn't worried. Whatever they picked would be fine with her – as long as the groom was Erik, how could she care? She and Erik walked Brenda and Harold out to their car and waved goodbye as they drove away.

"That wasn't as bad as you thought it would be, now was it?" Christine kissed Erik's earlobe, his cheek being unavailable.

"You'll never know, my love. But you were right on one count – they are very nice people. I'll enjoy having them as parents." He kissed her back and they returned home.

Nearly a week later, Christine came home from work to find Erik kneeling in the music room, the shattered dulcimer cradled in his hands. He was not trying to repair it, he was simply staring down at it, occasionally touching the jagged wood of its broken soundboard. She considered leaving him to his contemplations, but his hunched shoulders and strange stillness would not let her walk by. Quietly, she lowered herself to the floor next to him. They sat that way for a long time, neither speaking, both staring at the broken instrument.

"I used to be so proud of this room," he whispered at last. "Your parents never saw it."

"No."

"And you never told them how your leg was broken." He rested one hand lightly on the cast.

"I told them I was climbing on rocks and fell. It's true."

Erik continued as though he had not heard her. "Even your friendship with Meg. My parents. I break everything I touch, Christine." He stroked the dulcimer and set it aside. "I just can't understand why you want to marry an ugly man who breaks things."

Instead of answering him, she picked up a nearby acoustic guitar, the neck of which had been snapped, and examined it. The break was clean. With wood glue and some very clever bracing, the guitar might be playable. It would never again have the perfect pure sound it once had, but it would make music. "Wood glue and bracings. Do you think you could do it, Erik?"

He looked at the damage. "Yes, but it will be a challenge." He set it to one side and continued his gloomy meditation.

Next, she pushed a small harp into his hands. "Simple. Even I could do this one. Its strings are broken and one tuning peg has come loose."  
"True. You could fix this, if I showed you how." He set it next to the guitar.

"I think this viola has had it, but the mandolin could be treated like the guitar. Couldn't it?"

The viola joined the dulcimer, but the mandolin was placed gently in the stack of salvageable instruments. One by one, they sorted through the pile of instruments Meg had deemed too broken to be fixed. None of them would ever be the same again, but many could be saved.

"Just two left to sort," she whispered, nestling closer to him and lightly, lightly brushing his cheek with her fingertips. The damage he had done on that awful night was slowly healing, but it was leaving more scars in its wake. "But they are so tangled up together that you must put them both in the same pile."

"Seems a pity to mingle the trash with the treasure," but he pulled her onto his lap and held her tightly.

"More a pity to throw out a perfect instrument just because someone ruined the finish..."

"But it is far from perfect - it's a defective thing; it falls out of tune constantly, and only one person in all the world can wring any sort of melody from it."

"But without its melody - which guides her harmony - her whole world would be a cacophony. Besides, it's the only instrument she cares to play." Christine tilted his head down and kissed him sweetly. "If she could no longer play it, her music would be forever silenced."

He put two fingers over her lips. "Shhh. You don't mean that, Christine."

"I _do_ mean it. You are an ugly man who breaks things. Fine." She grabbed his hands and held them up in front of him. "You are _also_ an Angel who creates celestial music and who put a broken woman back together. You are the glue and bracings holding me together. Our wedding is the vice that will hold us together and allow the glue to set."

He drew her hands to him and pressed them to his chest over his heart. "If that is truly the way you feel, then I am yours in heart and mind. I'm your willing servant. You only have to ask, and it will be done."

"No matter what I ask?"

"No matter what."

"Do you swear it?"

"I swear." He spoke solemnly and kissed her hand by way of sealing his promise.

"Then I already have two requests. The first is that we go back to the park soon and play. I miss it."

"Done and done. Now that the whole city has seen my face, no doubt they'll turn out in droves to see the freak. We should have record-breaking crowds." He made a wry face. "Just don't be surprised when they start jeering and throwing things."

_"_Flowers, maybe. The second request – well, since you've already agreed to it, I will ask when it is time." She struggled to her feet and grinned happily down at him. "Come on, my beloved fiancé, let's go compose our wedding ceremony."

They sat up late into the night, composing a service that would be heard only by a bare half-dozen people. The fullscore would take many nights, but there was no sense that haste was needed. They had three full months and the work flowed naturally.

When they did return to Interlaken park nearly a week later, both of their predictions were proved true. Once park-goers recognized that a _Strange Noise _concert was about to begin, they whipped out their cell phones and began calling friends. The crowd rapidly grew from dozens to thousands. In truth, a few people in the crowd did come to "see the freak", but they were a scant minority.

The article that had nearly destroyed Erik had spread _Strange Noise'_s name like wildfire. Meg's article wrung the public's heart and the duo's subsequent disappearance outraged fans and triggered a wave of sympathetic letter-writing. The editorial page contained little but letters of support for the wronged couple for several days. Because they were in Appleton, neither musician had the least idea that their fame was growing exponentially.

_Strange Noise _stood before the growing crowd, tuning their instruments and quietly discussing last minute adjustments to the setlist. Erik would not look at the burgeoning throng. His eyes never left Christine for a moment; he was sure that if he did look, he would see hostile, sneering faces. Christine had no such unhappy illusions. She cast sideways glances at the enthusiastic, eager faces surrounding them; each glance fueled her own excitement. Not only was the crowd immense, it was also noisy. Erik ignored them, but Christine heard clearly the words of every shout. They were shouts of welcome, shouts of adoration. When the music began, the noise stopped as though cut with a knife.

The setlist contained only the pieces they had composed over the last five days. It was a masterful set of compositions; several pieces were perfect interweavings of jazz and classical, or rock and classical. There were no well-known pieces thrown in as crowd pleasers - non ewere needed. Their delighted fans, usually happy to applaud and leave, screamed for an encore when it seemed the music was done. After the encore, they kept screaming. Erik could no longer ignore them. The was no dream. This was reality. Here were several thousand people who knew what was hidden behind the mask – and couldn't care less. From that day forward, it was a little easier for Erik to hold his head up in public and a little harder to remember why he'd hidden away for so many years.


	62. An Acceptable Compromise

**Wedding Plans**

Nadir Khan was sitting in his easy chair, re-reading Locke's Second Treatise on Civil Government, and enjoying a cup of dark tea when his phone rang. It was nearly ten o'clock at night, so it could only be one person.

"Hello, Erik. I'm glad you're alive and well. How's the romance going?" Nadir closed his book over his thumb. If the book were open, he'd read it instead of listening to his young friend.

"We're getting married, Nadir. She wants to marry me."

"Congratulations! She's a wonderful girl." Nadir paused, waiting for the invitation. "Well...am I allowed to attend the nuptials?"

"Of course. You must attend. You will be the only person there for me." For once, Erik's voice held no bitterness about his isolation, only a little sadness. "Besides, I have to find a tuxedo, and I haven't the first idea how to go about it."

"Are you inviting me to come down and help you pick your tux?" Nadir was doing his best to keep from laughing. The girl had made him happy, but she hadn't done a thing for his social skills – yet.

"Yes."

"Why, thank you. I accept."

"Nadir, there are other things we must discuss." Now there was emotion in Erik's voice; the slightest of tremors, a hint of sorrow. "I have been to see my father, so that he could meet Christine."

"And how is he? It has been nearly a year since I last visited." Nadir tried to keep his tone light and conversational.

"He didn't know me...at first."

"Then he did recognize you?" surprise was evident in Nadir's voice.

"I don't know." Erik cleared his tightening throat in angry exasperation. He had not wept since he was a child – that is, until Christine had entered his life. Now tears seemed always just beneath the surface. She was waking up all the parts of him that he'd carefully put to sleep, and as with any limb that's gone to sleep, there were pins and needles to bear. "He said he loved his son Erik. He said it to us both."

Nadir pressed pressed his fingers to his eyes, then stroked his goatee. "That is good."

"I destroyed my instruments." Abruptly changing the subject was an old habit of Erik's. Abruptly changing it to something equally painful was not.

"Christine told me."

"When? When did Christine talk to you?" Erik sounded confused, not suspicious.

Nadir blinked. _He _has_ changed. "_The night after your face was in the paper. She was in a panic and needed guidance."

"You always were good for that." Erik sighed. He would have to be more wary of Christine and Nadir in the future. "She saved my life. I suppose I owe you thanks as well."

"She's a good girl. I told you she was." A little smile further creased Nadir's wrinkled cheeks. "And she said the same about you that night."

"Said what?"

"That you were good. Of course..." Nadir paused to sip his coffee, "she's right." He heard Erik take a breath to argue and softly interrupted. "I will be there a week in advance to help you get ready. I am sincerely glad for you, Erik. Goodnight."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Meg and Brenda had had a field day designing Christine's dress. The dressmaker they hired to create the thing smiled when she saw the sketches, dollar signs danced in her eyes. Harold complained that all the money they were saving on the wedding, the two women were trying to spend on a dress and veil that would only be worn once in the presence of a half-dozen people.

Meg dragged Christine out of the house early one morning not long after her cast was removed. The foundations of the dress were complete; it was time for fitting. The dress conspirators were adamant that Christine should not see the finished product until the day of her wedding. The beading, embroidery, and other embellishments would be done after the dress was fitted and tailored to perfection.

Christine stood like a doll on Joan's stand as Meg and the dressmaker dressed her. The dress required a corset, a modified hoop skirt, and the yards of fabric had to be draped over her and laced. Two hours and many hundred pins later, Meg turned her to face the mirror.

"So? Do you like it?" Meg was grinning like a mad monkey – she already knew the answer.

Christine's mouth dropped open and she was at a complete loss for words. She'd been so busy with her music and Erik that she hadn't noticed her body changing. Her clothes had become baggy - true – but it seemed unimportant. Now she realized that all the walking in the park lugging heavy instruments along with a steady diet of Erik's delicious, healthy creations had whittled the last of the excess weight from her body. She was not thin by any stretch of the imagination, but her silhouette was sleek. The corset pulled her waist to a tiny twenty-seven inches, emphasized by the bell of the hoop skirt. The dress's bodice was an off-shoulder style that nicely displayed her pretty shoulders and ample bust. She tried to imagine what it would look like with a veil and train.

Meg was bursting with glee at the stunned sparkle in her best friend's eyes. "Erik won't know what hit him, will he..."

"No, he really won't. But Meg?" Christine had just noticed something.

"What? Is a pin sticking you?"

"No...Meg, I can't breathe enough to sing! I have to sing – it's part of the ceremony we've written."

Meg's brow wrinkled. This was a problem neither she nor Brenda had considered, neither of them being singers.

"Oh, that is no problem." Joan piped up from her hunched position at the hem of the skirt. "I will adjust the stays with a strong elastic. You will be able to sing just fine." The adjustment would, of course, add to the total cost of the dress.

No other changes were needed, fortunately for Harold's peace of mind. The two young women thanked Joan for her help and left in a fit of giggles.

Meg stood with Christine at the door of the apartment. She rarely came inside; Erik's cold glare made any visit a misery. "Do me a favor, Miss Chris?"

"Sure." Christine and Meg had talked a little about the horrible newspaper incident, but they'd never gone into detail. The weight of an old friendship made forgiveness and reunion inevitable.

"Try to make him understand how sorry I am. I really, really am. I mean, I like him, you know, because he's done so much for you. But I can't stand the way he looks at me, like he'd enjoy ripping my head off if you weren't there." Meg twisted her mood ring anxiously.

"I'll try, but I think you two will have to talk that out on your own. I don't think he is used to the shake-hands-and-make-up routine. He might never forgive you. I'm sorry."

They hugged and Meg went on her way. Christine heaved a sigh and opened the door only to be engulfed in the entrancing sound of heavenly violin music. Erik was rehearsing for the wedding. When she joined in on her cello, the only sign that he heard was the smile that flickered at the corners of his mouth.

When they were done, Christine pulled Erik over to the sofa and made him sit with her. "Meg asked me to put in a good word for her. She wants you to know that is sorry."

"So she has said." Like that, his good mood vanished.

"I really wish you would hear..."

"No. I have no interest in anything she might say." He was cold as ice, immovable as a mountain.

"She's sincerely sorry," Christine tried.

"I'm sure."

"Erik, couldn't you just talk to her?"

"I told you no. I have nothing to do with that red-headed terror." Though his volume had not risen at all, the ire in Erik's voice set Christine on the defensive. How long would he hold on to this? Christine found that she was more than annoyed – she was angry.

"She's a _person, _Erik, she made a _mistake._"

"She almost destroyed me! Why are you taking her side?"

Christine stood up, her posture rigid, her voice loud and angry. "You act like I've never taken up for you when you messed up. You act like no one has ever forgiven you for hurting them. Well, they have. Don't you think it's about damned time you learned how to forgive someone else? What will you do if I ever make a mistake?"

With that, she ran down the hall and locked herself in the music room and refused to answer when he knocked, no matter what he said. She suspected that she was being childish, but she knew that if he looked at her with those intense eyes and reasoned with her in that rational voice, she would give in. This was not the time for that. Here, surrounded by the evidence of his uncontrolled temper, she was able to stick to her guns. He had to learn.

Erik pounded on the door for a few minutes before figuring out that Christine would not answer. He retired in high dudgeon to the bedroom, where he threw himself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. At first, his mind railed against Christine, angry that she would stand on anyone's side but his. As time passed and his pounding heart slowed, though, her angry words began to take on a different tone in his mind. _What would I do if she ever made a mistake? I'd forgive her instantly – of course. _She had already forgiven him completely for the sins he'd committed against her. _Nadir said she called me "good". _ Erik felt an overwhelming desire to measure up to Christine's praise, but... _If being "good" means forgiving that Irish witch...I don't know. I just don't know. _An hour later, he hit on what he hoped would be an acceptable compromise.

Christine's solo cello adaptation of Schumann's _Adagio _sounded through the door, slow and sad. It cut off abruptly when he quietly rapped on the door.

"What." After all her talk about forgiveness, she did not seem to be in much of a forgiving mood.

"We should not fight. I want to make a compromise..."

"I'm listening." Now she was the mountain.

"I will listen to what she has to say. Whatever her defense of her actions might be, I'll hear her out. After she's spoken her piece, I will decide whether or not I can...overlook...what she did to me. I don't promise to forgive her, Christine. I will not make promises I might not keep."

There was a long silence from the room, followed by the click of the lock opening. Christine cracked the door and looked up at him; her face was solemn, but hopeful. "You promise you will really listen to what she says?"

"Yes." Erik said, only a little nonplussed.

The door opened a little more. "When? Before the wedding?"

"Whenever she is ready."

The door opened the rest of the way and Christine emerged to wrap him in a tight hug. "I knew you'd see reason!"

Erik shook his head. She'd done it to him again. He muttered the same thing he'd said the night she'd forced him to take his medicine, "You're a hard little woman, you know that?"

"I know That's why you love me." She stretched up and kissed his cheek. "Are you making dinner? I have to go call Meg."


	63. All Apologies

**All Apologies**

Erik and Christine's apartment door loomed in front of Meg. Compared to three days before, it looked sinister and forbidding. When Christine called to say that Erik was willing to hear Meg out, Meg's first feelings were happiness and relief; finally she'd be able to get past the guilt of her massive gaffe. Close behind those initial emotions, though, was a deep foreboding. Christine would not say whether or not Erik would forgive her – in fact, her general tone was one of uncertainty.

Lifting a reluctant hand, Meg knocked and waited. Christine answered the door a few moments later.

"Hi Meg. Come on in." Christine looked cheerful enough.

Meg walked into the apartment and saw that two steaming mugs were on the coffee table, already filled with fragrant jasmine tea. Next to the coffee was a bowl full of seedless green grapes.

"Have a seat and get comfy. Erik will be out in a minute." Christine picked up her purse, patted Meg on the shoulder and turned towards the door.

"Wait!" Meg realized she had spoken more loudly than she intended and lowered her voice. "You aren't going to just leave me here, are you?"

"I'm not getting in the middle of this. No, thank you. If you want to work this out with him, you'll have to do it on your own." Christine had made this decision late last night. "You'll be ok if you just keep one thing in mind."

"And that is?"

"Be patient. He's not used to people," and she was gone.

Meg sat nibbling grapes and sipping tea. Erik was taking his own sweet time about whatever he was doing. Of course, she wasn't so sure she actually wanted him to emerge.

For his part, Erik was sitting in the bedroom waiting for his TENS unit to knock out some of the pain. He could not deal with Meg with his face aflame; his temper would be too short. Finally it beeped, signaling the end of his session. With a sigh, he carefully tied his mask and put on his fedora. It was time to get this thing over with.

Meg heard him coming down the hall, and for just a moment, the image of the ransacked apartment filled her mind. He'd been completely insane that night. She very much wished Christine were here to mediate.

Wordlessly, Erik stalked into the room and took a seat in the computer chair across from where Meg sat on the sofa. He picked up his mug of tea, leaned back in the chair and sipped calmly. When his unwavering stare began to unnerve her, Meg finally spoke.

"Christine said that you, uh, agreed to listen to me. So, um, thank you." She stopped. He was still sitting, impassively sipping and staring. "When I first talked to that reporter, she seemed really interested in _Strange Noise. _ She acted like she wanted to promote you guys, make you famous." She paused, looking for words. "And the first article she wrote _was _nice. So I started to trust her. She would call me up now and then to see where you would perform. She never asked personal questions; not until you started to get big. I was so happy for you. I wanted you to be famous. I wanted Christine to be famous. When she first asked me why you wore...I mean, she asked what the..."

"Mask." It was his first word of the visit, delivered in a booming baritone and without emotion.

"Yeah. The, uh, mask. She wanted to know why you wore it. Christine told me that your face was...kind of..."

"Disfigured." Again, the single word like a single funeral bell pealing.

"Yes. Well, I didn't tell the reporter anything about that. I just said I didn't know because I'd never seen you without it. She seemed to accept that and she just moved on to what sort of music Christine listened to in her spare time." Meg's words came faster as she grew increasingly nervous under that stony stare.

"She was just so _friendly. _I didn't suspect her at all. One day, she caught me when I was in a hurry. She asked me what your names were and I just told her. I knew it was a mistake the moment I said it, but Erik please believe me when I say I had _no idea_ what she intended to do with that information. She'd been nothing but helpful and positive before. You know?" Meg looked up, hoping to see some sign that Erik was softening. The mask hid his expression, his mouth was a single straight line, his eyes were dispassionate. "When I saw what she'd done, I came straight here to apologize, but you were both already gone. I saw...I tried to clean up. It was my fault, all my fault. And I'm sorry."

Erik finished his tea and set the empty mug on the table. "You saw the picture in the paper, of course."

Meg nodded and winced. The wince did not escape Erik's notice.

"Handsome devil, aren't I..."

She had no idea how to respond, so she picked up a grape and chewed it slowly.

"Now, if that were you, how do you think... No. You have no basis for comparison. You have no idea what you did to me."

"No, I don't. I'm sorry." Meg stared into her cup and watched the dregs swirl at the bottom.

"Did Christine tell you how she broke her leg?"

"No..."

"She wouldn't. She doesn't tell everything she knows," he sneered. "She broke it climbing down a cliff face in the middle of the night – coming after me." He let this sink in for a moment. "Your 'little mistake' almost killed me. You see, because of the wording in the article, I thought _Christine_ was the culprit – imbecile that i was."

Meg was horrified. Erik was giving no details, but her imagination was sharp. She could imagine Erik reading the article, thinking Christine had given him away, flying into a rage, destroying the apartment they shared, and then running off into the night intent on killing himself because the woman he loved had betrayed him. Jay's declaration that if he was in Erik's place he'd want to kill her came to mind. She jerked her eyes up to Erik's face, fear gleaming in them.

Erik watched realization dawn in her freckled features. Dismay spread like a dark cloud across her normally perky face, followed closely by fear. _Good, _ he thought savagely.

"You thought maybe I did it? What did the headline call me? Monster?" The rage was slowly building. He stood and leaned over Meg threateningly. "I certainly look the part, don't I..."

"No," Meg squeaked. "I know you would never hurt her..." W_hat about me?_ her mind babbled, _Be patient. Christine said be patent. _But he was frightening as he towered over her, all darkness and concealing mask.

"Do you..." He was not quite ready to back down yet. "How?"

"She loves you. Christine has made a lot of mistakes when it comes to men, but she's never dated a man who abused her."

Erik eased off a little bit. "So you came here tonight hoping that I would... what? Forgive you? Kiss and make up?"

_Be patient _"I hoped you would hear me out and understand that it was a mistake. An honest mistake. I never meant to hurt you – either of you. It's been a long time since Christine has been happy, and she's only happy because of you. If you and I can't at least be civil to one another, it is going to hurt her."

Erik sat down and put his chin in his hand. Nothing else Meg had said had penetrated the icy wall around his hurt pride. This last, however, broke through powerfully, because it was truth. This was Christine's childhood friend, her maid of honor. If there was a rift between them, it could only tear at Christine, who would inevitably be caught in the middle. _That must be why she excused herself tonight. She didn't want to be caught between us._

Meg took his silence as a good sign. She bit her lip and forced herself to wait for him to finish mulling whatever it was he was mulling. Finally, he did look up.

"Alright. I am not accustomed to this, but it appears I have no choice. From this moment, we will pretend that we have just met. I will treat you like any other stranger on the street. Maybe over time we will come to..." He trailed off, not sure of how to continue.

Meg easily took over. Now that he'd relented, she was not so afraid to begin reparations. "Maybe we will come to be friends. I like you, Erik, and I'm not such a bad person – once you get to know me."

As to that last, Erik was reserving judgment. He stood and waited for her to do the same.

"Good afternoon, Miss Giry." He said stiffly, offering his hand. "It has been a pleasure."

_Such a strange man, _she thought, but this was far better than the wrathful glares. She would play his game and make the most of it. "Good afternoon, Mr. Valliere. I hope we will talk again soon."

He let her out and closed the door behind her before sinking slowly to the floor in a bundle of frayed nerves. This business of being friendly and forgiving was harder than it looked.


	64. Only a Week

**A/N: Next up's the wedding. This may take me awhile - I want to get it right. Could be one day, could be several. **

**Only a Week**

Nadir walked into the shop and stood holding the door as Erik slouched in after him. It was a necessary trip, but that didn't make it any easier for the reclusive man. Everywhere he and Christine went, people recognized them. It was no longer three or four people on the bus; it was small crowds. They wanted autographs – some even had the gall to ask for photographs! Christine was usually able to charm their admirers into letting them go on their way, but he still avoided going out when he could talk her into staying home.

Nadir did not even attempt to disperse the crowds. He liked being surrounded by an admiring public. As far as he was concerned, Erik was only getting his dues. Of course, the men's clothiers store management would not let the throng in, for which Erik was extremely grateful.

Soon, Erik was tricked out nicely in a two button classic tuxedo with a tailor examining the fit. This shop boasted two-day custom tailoring, which was why Nadir thought it would be a good choice. Finally, the tailor sat back on his heels.

"Not much I'll have to do. We'll take in the jacket a bit, and the shirt, but we don't want too close a fit." _The man's little more than a skeleton_, he thought. He had no idea how much Erik had filled out since Christine entered his life. "It will be ready by tomorrow afternoon."

"That's just fine," Nadir smiled. He turned Erik towards the full length mirror, which Erik had been avoiding all night. "Look at yourself, my boy. Christine will be blown away. She'll be breathless."

"Can we get out of here now?" Erik growled. "Before this man touches me again..." Erik wanted no one touching him but Christine, and the tailor's measuring certainly counted as touching.

"Of course, son, of course. Let's go"

That night, Christine and Erik snuggled comfortably in bed, each absorbed in watching the other. Erik was contemplating her gentle fingers as they ran through his hair lovingly. Christine was contemplating her plans for their wedding.

"Erik?"

"Yes, love?"

"Our ceremony is going to be beautiful."

He smiled softly. "It will."

"We've rehearsed everything to perfection. All the officiator – What's his name?"

"Archer."

"All Mr. Archer has to do is pronounce us and sign the certificate. He's heard what we've composed..." The little man had sniffled and reached for a tissue midway through the tape. "and he is fine with the mask."

"He saw the paper, he said." Erik stretched and pushed his arm under back and around her shoulders. "Makes sense he'd be happy to let me keep my mask. Not that I'd allow any quibbling over it..."

"City Hall would never have allowed it." Christine didn't mention that she had called around for several hours before she found an independent officiator who would allow a masked groom.

"No, which is why we aren't going to City Hall."

"We've got the prettiest little room at The Warwick. Mom and Meg will be doing all the decorations...Mom's a whiz with flowers." After a moment's thought, she added, "It's very private. No windows or any such thing."

"I'm sure staff will be in and out..."

"Nope. We've made sure of that. Perfectly private. And everything else is planned out as well. My mother and Meg will bring the dress by that morning and Nadir has promised to get you out of the way."

"Out of the way? I'll be in your way?" Erik threw her a hurt look.

"Don't be silly, Erik. You know you can't see me before the ceremony on our wedding day. Besides, all you have to do is put on a suit. I have to be corseted and laced and draped and made up and goodness knows what else."

"I won't know you..." Erik had tried to imagine Christine in her bridal gown, but he knew all his fantasies would fall short.

"You'll know me just fine." She rolled over onto his chest and kissed his collarbone teasingly. "I'll be the one in white." She nibbled at his neck and ear in her funny little way, knowing it drove him mad.

"All of this changes nothing, you know. We'll go on living just as we do now, only we'll have all the privileges of marriage under the law." Erik's voice would have sounded even to any other listener, but Christine could hear him trying to reassure himself.

"Yeah, it's exciting. We can file our taxes together and you can take me off life-support when our fans run me down in the park one of these days."

"Don't even joke about that." He shuddered at the thought, then wrapped his arms around her and looked down to her curly brown hair spread across his pale, thin chest. "I love you, Christine."

"I love you, too." She looked up to meet his eyes, resting her chin on his sternum. "You remember what you promised me..."

"Huh?"

"You promised me that whatever I asked, you'd do. And I told you I already had two requests. I got one right away, but I reserved the other for a later time."

"Is now that time?"

"No. I just want to be sure you remember your promise." Her fingers strayed to his face, tracing its lines and scars. It always amazed him that she could bear to touch him; even more amazing was that she could always do it without causing the slightest twinge of pain, that she could allow him to feel pleasure even in that most damaged of places.

"It makes me wonder what that other request is..." Erik rolled her off his chest and pushed up onto his elbow to look down into her sparkling green eyes.

"Well, wonder on, because I won't tell. Not until it's time." She grinned impishly at him.

"Go on keeping your secrets, then." Erik kissed her firmly. "I may have a secret of my own." He turned from her curious expression with a smirk and settled into a comfortable position. Not long after, his slow, deep breathing announced that he had fallen asleep.

Christine could not asleep; she was too nervous to rest. In only five days, they would be husband and wife – assuming he did not take umbrage at her request and leave her standing alone in her huge wedding dress in front of their family and friends. He slept so easily beside her; she thought back on the early days of their friendship, when he divulged that he was a night owl and an insomniac. Now, he slept with her every night. He trusted her.

"Keep trusting me, Erik, please," she whispered, not wanting to wake him. "No matter what I ask."


	65. The Wedding

**The Wedding**

Erik stood with Nadir at the front of the beautifully appointed room, staring toward the doors through which Christine would soon emerge. Purple, white, and powder blue flowers were the room's sole wedding decorations, but they frothed from every corner and covered every surface in a fragrant profusion of rich color. His violin rested on a short pedestal across from him; his instrument of the moment was Christine's cello. Though Nadir held a supportive hand to Erik's back,his real comfort was the cello. Holding it was almost like holding her.

Their few guests sat in comfortable leather chairs on either side of the path Christine would walk. There was no real division between the bride's side and the groom's side. To his right sat Christine's mother and father and her Aunt Carol; to his left sat Jay, his father and the nurse who had been hired to care for him for the day. Soon, Nadir would join her parents (with whom he had become very friendly over the past few days) and Meg would leave Christine to sit with her boyfriend.

"It's time," whispered Nadir. He patted Erik once on the shoulder, then went to take his seat.

Erik touched the bow to the strings and played the first few strains of the opening score he and Christine had written together. Right on cue, the door opened and an angel in white stepped into the room. Her gown was intricately beaded with tiny crystals that caught the light and reflected it; she shimmered with every step. Meg walked behind her, holding the long train to keep it from catching on anything.

Erik forgot he held the cello. He forgot about his small audience. The music stopped. Christine stopped. Bit by bit, Erik regained use of his rational mind. He had a surprise for her – something only he and she would understand. He'd prepared it especially as a sacred, secret moment between just the two of them in the midst of a ceremony meant more for the onlookers. If he waited much longer, she'd start moving again, and the moment would be lost.

With fingers that wanted to deny his control, he lifted the bow and began to play, but not the original score. The sweet sound of the first song that ever passed between them, _Cello Song _by Nick Drake, welcomed his bride as she walked the aisle. She looked up, met his eyes, and smiled – she understood. The moment was achieved. But even now, as she smiled at the private message, there was an odd nervousness in her eyes. _Is she rethinking her decision? No. What, then?_

Christine stood across from him now. Meg settled the dress's train and took her seat next to Jay. Erik finished the piece and offered her cello to her. She shook her head and took a step closer to him. Erik saw that she was flushed and anxious; her anxiety was contagious, it quickly jumped to him. She leaned close, smelling deliciously of perfume and makeup.

"This is my second request, my love," she whispered and lifted her hands to his masked face, touching the hated leather barrier, trailing her fingers along its edges. "Please take this off."

Erik's eyes widened when he saw that she was entirely serious. He shook his head slowly with blooming panic and his shaking fingers tightened on the cello.

"You promised." Here came the hard part. Christine steeled herself and carried on as planned. "I cannot marry a mask, Erik."

"Don't make me do this. _Not in front of them_." How could she ask this? Her parents and sweet little Aunt Carol sat there, innocent of the horror behind his mask. The poor nurse, too, had no idea what she was about to see. Mr. Archer, Meg, and Jay had seen the paper, but print hardly translated into real life. His future family, potential friends, people he might have come to know and care for...if they saw, any chance he might have had with them would be obliterated. Anything else, he'd have granted without a moment's hesitation. But this? "Please."

Family and friends sat silent, not understanding this sudden change in the program. They could not hear a word that was whispered, did not understand the import of the whispered conversation. Knowing the participants, though, they were not surprised – only confused.

"This is cruel, Christine." He let the pain her 'request' was causing him show through clearly, hoping she would have mercy. "This is heartless."

"You _promised"_ she repeated. "Don't you trust me?" Her tone was pleading, but she was adamant. If he refused, so would she.

"I trust you. I trust you, but you are breaking me." His voice, even in a faint whisper, was soaked in sorrow. _Why, Christine? "_Why can't you just let this be beautiful?"

"It will be." She unwrapped his hand from the cello's fingerboard and lifted it to the ties of his mask. "You don't need this. It will be alright, my Angel of Music. I promise."

Numbly, Erik's fingers fumbled at the strings. His mask dropped to the floor. Christine smiled into his naked face, caressed it lovingly. There were sounds of surprise, fear, and pity from the audience, followed by the sound of running feet. Erik turned to look, but Christine's gentle hands were there, turning him back to face her.

"Let it go, Erik, it's not important. Look at me, play for me and it _will_ be beautiful." She settled her cello against the bell of her skirt.

Picking up where the ceremony left off, Christine played the notes they had agreed spoke their feelings for one another. For the first five measures, she played alone. _Please let it go. Just let it go and join me..._

Her gaze never strayed from his. Her family was there, watching, but she never looked away to gauge their reaction. If she did not care, how could he? Christine was playing to him - for him - and her expression showed that, for her, there was no one else in the room.

_There might not be,_ he thought bitterly, _they might all have run away._

Erik took his violin in hand and lifted it to his chin. Still dismayed by her actions, he began to play flatly, passionlessly. The notes were unbeautiful; his mechanical delivery threw discord into the harmonies they'd created. Christine warmed her performance to compensate for his coldness. She wrapped her music around his like a healing bandage. When nothing else worked, she opened her mouth and added a wordless counterpoint.

It was Christine's voice that melted the fear in his heart. Erik had brought that voice to life himself, taught it and nurtured it. It was a part of her that he'd always thought of as his. It _was_ still his. She was giving it to him, offering it in exchange for the pain she made him endure. This was no longer a performance; it was a series of promises made in music, more precious than blood.

When Erik's mask hit the floor, he was revealed to all their friends and family. Each reacted differently, but all of them ended by looking away. All that is, except Meg, who had run to the back of the room and was sick in the fancy waste basket there, and Erik's father, who stared as if seeing a ghost; for the shortest of moments, he recognized his son. No one else could stand to look at the ruins of what had once been a human face. Christine expected no less. She knew their reactions would be at least as intense as her own. She had made a dangerous gamble on what would happen next.

Her voice woke in Erik the realization that it truly did not matter that he stood unmasked in front of friends, family, and strangers – as long as she stood with him. His passion stirred as he began to fathom the depth and courage of Christine's request. She was not trying to hurt or humiliate him; she was demanding that he be a man, like any other. She risked everything to show him, and everyone, that he was so much more than an ugly man hiding under a mask. She was demanding that they look – really look – and see the truth.

Erik answered her demand. He played with the whole of his spirit, throwing every ounce of his skill into the music. He mingled his voice with hers, balancing her bright soprano with his dark baritone. One by one, the guests were forced to look up; the sound was too beautiful. They _could_ look at him now; the music stripped away the hideous veneer and let the man he was meant to be shine through. Christine won her gamble.

By the time the couple began to sing their vows, no one's gaze was averted.

Christine set her cello aside; he relinquished his violin. This last piece was composed in the style of a melodic chant, designed to put the words before the music without surrendering the spell of melody. Christine was first.

"_Let there be only sweetness;_

_Let me be the calm in your storm._

_I promise to find you, no matter where you hide,_

_I promise to know you, no matter your disguise,_

_I promise to be the music that breaks your silence."_

Erik answered her,

"_Let there be only sweetness;_

_Let mine be the arms that comfort you._

_I promise to hold you up when you fall, _

_I promise to be the light that illumines you, _

_I promise to be the music that breaks your silence._

Then, together,

"_I promise to love you and keep you until darkness takes me."_

They turned to Mr. Archer, who was finally recovered enough to carry on with his part in the ceremony.

"Do you, Erik Valliere, take Christine Daae to be your lawfully wedded wife from this day forward?"

"I do."

"Do you, Christine Daae, take Erik Valliere to be your lawfully wedded husband from this day forward?"

"I do."

The officiant handed Erik Christine's ring. He took her hand, kissed it, slid the ring onto her fourth finger and pronounced, "Let this ring always remind you that you never need be alone. Let my heart be your shelter, my arms be your home. I love you." His voice was strong, his hand steady.

Christine took Erik's ring from Mr. Archer. She looked at her husband, standing across from her - maskless and unafraid, even proud. He was perfect; there was no disfigurement or blemish that she could see. Her breath came hard, despite the elasticized stays. She took his hand in hers, kissed it, and saw her tears fall onto it and glisten there. She was trembling like a leaf in a strong wind; she almost could not put the ring onto his finger. "Let this ring always remind you that you never need be alone...never..." she could go no further.

Erik held her close, letting her tears of joy and relief soak his tuxedo jacket. "It's alright, Christine. I know," he murmured.

Mr. Archer stepped in. "Then let this couple be joined in the eyes of the law and of their friends and relations. Erik and Christine, I pronounce you man and wife."

Nadir walked solemnly to the front of the room, pocketed the mask, and picked up Erik's violin. The old violinist played them out of the room, blinded by his own tears. They glided out in a blissful delirium, unaware of their sniffling guests or the horror-stricken stares they received from distinguished denizens of the hotel as they made their way to the wedding suite.

For Christine and Erik, the dream had begun.

_End_

**A/N: Thank you all for sticking with me through this writing. Your reviews, praise, and critiques have spurred me on and helped me stay on course. I hope you've had half as much fun reading as I have had writing. With regards to future writing projects, like I've said, if there's something you want to read, just let me know, and I'll see what I can do about writing it. **


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